Have You Ever
by Lady Moonglow
Summary: With the war looking bleak, the Golden Trio, Ginny, Draco, and Lavender go back to Tom Riddle's 7th Year to destroy Lord Voldemort once and for all. What Hermione DIDN'T count on, however, is a shared common room, a curse, and a little thing called love.
1. Have You Ever Given Up Hope

**AN**: This is for all you Tom-Hermione lovers... and for all you non-Tom-Hermione lovers out there, give it a try! There is always the small chance for conversion over to the Tom-Hermione side... Due to the publication of HBP, this story is slightly AU. Just go with it, it works (especially for those of you who like a good love story every once in a while!). Ships are/will be: HG/TR, HP/GW, RW/LB, and Draco is the wild card for now. This begins lightheartedly, then gets quite serious later on. So I hope you read on, and enjoy!

At the suggestion of Magick, I will add this warning: If you ever want to dislike Tom Riddle; if you ever want to be able to see him as a villain - stay away. This story will destroy your opinion.

**Disclaimer:** I am not the great and powerful JK Rowling; thus I do not own anything that you may even remotely recognize…

**Have You Ever**

**Chapter 1: On the Verge of Defeat**

Thursday, May 28, 1998

10:57 P.M.

Tears stung Hermione Granger's warm, usually cheerful eyes. The usual comfort of Albus Dumbledore's homey headmaster office had long since vanished, and Hermione found herself sitting directly across from the Headmaster of Hogwarts himself, feeling very alone. The vivid red and gold, pointy Gryffindor graduation hat that had initially delighted her beyond belief, complete with the special Head Girl insignia, was now lying in a crumpled ball in her limp hands.

She couldn't believe this was happening. Not on the day of her graduation from Hogwarts. The Dark forces were supposed to be receding. The war was supposed to be _ending._

_This night cannot be happening!_

"Hermione," the elderly man was saying heavily, "_You_ know, more than I can express, how you, Harry, and Ron have been a part of our family, our Hogwarts family, for seven wonderful, terrible years."

Wonderful, terrible. The two words could never have been more appropriate. Hermione's mind flashed back fondly to the adventures she had had with her two best friends, of the walks in Hogsmeade, of the pranks on the Slytherins (despite her every protest, unless they had _really _deserved it), of the way she could just sit with them and be, and never feel more at home.

Then the war had begun.

Focusing back on his entire statement, Hermione frowned and sat a bit more stiffly, her spine so straight that it arched elegantly against the wood of the chair back. Why had Dumbledore called _her_ to his office, at this hour, and on _this_ day, of all days, without her usual companions?

She smiled to herself, brightening, as she imagined what Harry and Ron were up to now… literally. Would it be their thirteenth bottle of butterbeer or their fourteenth? After all, it _was_ their last night to break the rest of the school's remaining rules before they said their farewells and left Hogwarts forever . . .

Yes, now that she thought about it, maybe it had been best that Dumbledore had left them out of whatever it was he needed to discuss tonight.

As if he sensed her distance of thought, Dumbledore genially cleared his throat, and Hermione's musings quickly left Ron and Harry to their late night partying.

She was a bit more concerned as to why the leader of the Order of the Phoenix had just explained to her that almost every single bit of intel the Order had thought they had had on the course of the war had been dreadfully erroneous; how, instead of receding, Voldemort was merely regrouping his forces, resurging, sweeping through the United Kingdom and Paris with more ferocity and strength than the remaining Light fighters had to give in return.

"Please, sir," she began slowly, carefully choosing as tact of a phrasing as possible, "I don't mean to be blunt, but…. Why are you telling _me_ this?"_ Me and **not** Harry? "_What's left that I—we— can possibly do?"

Wordlessly, Dumbledore abandoned his polished wooden seat and began to pace the room, studying the multifarious paintings lining the wall, his hand clasped behind his back, his long grey beard brushing the tip of his maroon belt and matching robe.

A silent Dumbledore was never a good sign, and Hermione, try as she might, couldn't erase the vision that met her whenever she looked at his face: The twinkle that had always graced his mischievous blue eyes had been absent for months now. She feared that it had been permanently replaced with a lost, defeated expression, and tonight was no exception.

More than facing Death Eaters, more than fighting wand-to-wand for her life in the midst of a battle, more than preparing to stand up to Lord Voldemort with Harry at the inevitable and soon approaching Final Battle, Dumbledore's face sent chills of pure terror through Hermione's nerves.

_We are going to lose this war. _

The thought, as morbid as it was, was the only logical conclusion that Hermione could draw from the given evidence. If the one man whom Voldemort supposedly feared was afraid, not for himself, but for the fate of those around him, then what else was Hermione supposed to conclude?

"I fear that the outcome of Lord Voldemort's next counterattack may very well end our life as we know it," Dumbledore eventually said heavily, his eyes coming to rest on a portrait of laughing children dressed in period clothing. The little boy in the painting was currently sticking his tongue out at Dumbledore and giggling. This only seemed to graven the expression on his face even more, and he heavily turned, pacing the few steps back to his seat at the enormous desk. "As you may imagine, I have not shared my opinions with the students because, in this case, what they don't know certainly won't hurt them. Not yet, anyway."

_What a jolly thought. And what other things "haven't hurt us to not know" throughout the years?_

Hermione pushed past the tight knot in her stomach and an acutely growing fear in the corner of her mind to smile brightly at Dumbledore. "So… What brilliant options have we left unexercised?" she asked as encouragingly as she could. A thought, negative as it was, suddenly crossed her mind. "What about the prophecy? Harry's still got a chance to kill Voldemort, hasn't he?"

"Yes, or vice versa," Dumbledore acknowledged with a small nod, sighing. "But _think,_ Ms. Granger. Think of the costs. Lord Voldemort has amassed an army far greater than any the Light will ever be able to regain. The giants, the goblins, the dementors, the Dark creatures of the Transylvanian woodlands… You have seen them, Ms. Granger. You know their lethal effectiveness and their penchant to kill. Do you really believe that they will cease in their fighting if and/or when Harry defeats Lord Voldemort?"

The horrible truth to his words left Hermione at a momentary loss, particularly because it was _Albus Dumbledore _who appeared to be on the verge of admitting defeat. The loud, obnoxious TICK TOCK TICK TOCK of his Muggle grandfather clock was nearly driving her to the brink of insanity, and for a moment she considered picking up her wand and blasting the clock in question to the other end of the castle with a Reductor.

After all, it _was_ graduation night, and she _was_ going to die, anyway. If Dumbledore thought all was lost, all was lost. Why not go ahead and use an illegal spell? In fact, why had they even been taught it in the first place if not to utilize it?

Abruptly, Dumbledore's voice hitched and then rose slightly, as it often did when he was about to make a crucial point. "Unless…" he interjected solemnly.

With that one little word, Hermione felt the dreary, ominous mood of the entire room lift considerably. _Unless_. That meant there was still a chance, slim as it might be. _Unless, unless, unless_. We have hope! "Unless….?" she echoed keenly, practically leaning forward in her seat.

"Unless-" Dumbledore reached into an unseen drawer and pulled out an ancient, dusty, and worn leather-bound book, placing it on his desk with a BANG! The washed out grey binding looked about ready to fall apart, and several edges of the yellowed parchment were singed black beyond all recognition, " - we stop the problem at its root."

Hermione's curiosity boiled over, all fear of a very near defeat floating out of her like a feather. Eagerly, she leaned forward across the desk in spite of herself, her Gryffindor graduation cap falling, unbeknownst to her, to the ground. Tilting her head slightly to the right, she impatiently tried to read the faded calligraphy stamped on the front cover.

As she did, a wave of hair fell lightly over her cheek, partially obscuring the vision in her left eye, but she didn't mind. Over the past two years, her frizzy mess had slowly lessened into soft, frizz-free, enviable dark brown curls, so Hermione no longer had to make battle with her head every morning as well as the many Dark forces. Instead, her hair dried straight out of the shower, each individual curl still retaining some of its wet look, which made it, on the whole, a great deal more manageable, and that was all that mattered to Hermione… although Lavender Brown had begun to complain that she wished her hair curled "that cute way yours does, Hermione."

Smiling to herself, she focused once more on the book's title, frowning a bit as she put together each letter. T-I-M-E T-R-A-V-E-L A-N-D O-T-H-E-R N-O L-O-N-G-E-R I-M-P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E F-E-A-T-S O-F O-L-D M-A-G-I-C-K.

_Time travel? _her mind echoed dumbly. Had Dumbledore finally lost it? Every respectable scholar knew that time travel wasn't possible.

Nonetheless, Hermione reverently fingered the aged bindings. "This book, it must be centuries old…" she whispered. Reluctantly abandoning her analysis of the book, she locked her piercing chocolate gaze on Dumbledore. Her intelligent mind was beginning to put two and two together, and she wasn't feeling entirely reassured about whatever plan he may have begun to devise. "Headmaster, what exactly does all this mean?"

Dumbledore sombrely peered at Hermione's slim, inquisitive face through half moon spectacles. She was sure even the slightest rustle of papers lying about in the Headmaster's offices went silent then, except for that sodding grandfather clock.

_TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK…_

An electrical charge had begun to build up in the air, Hermione could sense it, and she could feel her own heart speed up in anticipation for whatever incredible scheme Albus Dumbledore had planned - and it had to be incredible, for the use of Old Magick had been outlawed ever since the Magical Extremities and Instability Act of 1781.

Although she had no idea how utterly chilling his next ten words could be.

"It means, Ms. Granger, that you may never come back."

**A/N:** Read and review, please! I would love to hear your feedback and comments throughout the story!

Peace out

Lady Moonglow :-)


	2. Have You Ever Belonged

_An electrical charge had begun to build up in the air, Hermione could sense it, and she could feel her own heart speed up in anticipation for whatever incredible scheme Albus Dumbledore had planned - and it had to be incredible, for the use of Old Magick had been outlawed ever since the Magical Extremities and Instability Act of 1781._

_Although she had no idea how utterly chilling his next ten words could be._

"_It means, Ms. Granger, that you may never come back."_

**Chapter 2: Meet the Six**

Thursday, May 28, 1998

11:48 P.M.

As she manoeuvred her way toward the Room of Requirements, Hermione's mind felt like it had turned into a confused mush of Jello, the dull greys and browns of the dark, dimly lit fifth floor corridor whirling past her at seemingly alarming speeds.

She had emerged from the Headmaster's office carrying a worn, deflated cotton knapsack that she had not recalled entering with. Her graduation cap was hanging limply from her left hand, but she could hardly feel it there. She was still attempting to fully absorb what Dumbledore had just assured her was 'the last option.'

She was so immersed in her jumble of thoughts, she barely noticed the unmistakable wooden door of the Room of Requirements make a ghostly appearance on her left, hardly felt her cold fingers touch the smooth, gilded knob, and didn't even acknowledge the five other people waiting none-too-quietly inside as she slammed the Requirements door shut.

_CRASH!_

"Whoa there, Hermione!" Ron Weasley exclaimed with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, leaping away from the spray of butterbeer that had immediately erupted from his fallen bottle. A round of applause and some scattered cheers broke out from the remaining four teenagers in the room.

The lofty redhead bowed exaggeratedly before looking back down at the shards of glass on the now wet floor. He straightened up and shook a shaggy red mane of hair out of his eyes, his dismayed face reminding Hermione of a little boy whose root beer float had been stolen from him by the class bully. "What's the rush, eh?" he demanded irately.

"Don't think on it too much, Ronald darling, it's not as if you needed another one." Hermione smiled unremorsefully, pushing her back off the Room and Requirements door and picking her way across the room to the only remaining plush chair. This time, the Room had turned itself into a mock ski chalet. Despite the warm summer night, a fire was blazing merrily in the hearth, the oak and cherry finishes of elaborate wooden furniture, as well as a gigantic hanging pair of buck antlers, completing its adornment.

From his perch on the edge of the mahogany coffee table, Ron shook his head despairingly and whimpered, "You don't _understand_." Whipping out his wand in mock irritation, he briskly made a show of rolling up his sleeves and looked like he was preparing to take on a blast-ended skrewt. "_Reparo_," he huffed expertly.

Immediately, a blue haze enveloped the glass, and within seconds, the bottle and butterbeer were again one. Ron shook his head again, probably at her extreme lack of understanding of the mysterious male, and plucked another piece of pumpkin cake off a platter of food, obviously having been smuggled up from the Graduation feast in the Great Hall earlier that evening. Without hesitation, he shoved the entire piece into his mouth.

"Ewwwwwwww, Ron!"

Someone obviously didn't want her to sit down, Hermione thought wryly, and she leapt over the culprit of the previous squeal: the sprawled-out Lavender Brown, still clothed in her silky black graduation robes, the glossy blond's red and gold Gryffindor hat rolled up sloppily and propped under her head as a pillow.

Hermione had never been so relieved when she collapsed into the padded wooden rocking chair beside the crackling fireplace.

"Going somewhere?" Ginny Weasley piped up from her spot on the love seat, curled up beside Harry Potter. When Hermione glanced at her questioningly, the redhead nodded at the faded knapsack still dangling from Hermione's hand.

Against her will, Hermione's mind wandered back to the day Harry had asked Ginny out for the first time a year and a half earlier.

She herself had never been happier with a couple. As Harry's growth spurt slowed and his power grew, he had become the recipient of the completely unwanted attention of nearly half of the Hogwarts female population. Having lost her schoolgirl crush on Harry by the end of third year, Ginny was one of the only girls beside Hermione who saw Harry as just another friend, albeit a very good one; one of the only girls beside Hermione who could fully engage Harry in his skill, bravery, and stubbornness. In short, Ginny and Harry were made for each other.

Now, although Harry had abandoned his graduation robes for a simple coral Oxford, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, tie loosened, and light, tan trousers, Ginny was still in full uniform, having one year remaining at Hogwarts.

_That is, if Hogwarts is still here a year from now…_

Oh, right, the backpack. Blinking back to the present, Hermione glanced down at her right hand, promptly dropping the knapsack the few remaining feet to the ground. "Actually, Dumbledore wanted—"

"Going mad?" Lavender chirped in, giggling at her apparent ingenuity, or lack thereof.

Hermione sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "_No_, actually, so if you wouldn't—"

"Mind if we join you?" Harry added to Lavender's comment before she could finish, a craggy grin lighting up his rugged features.

Lavender, meanwhile, smiled brightly as Ron abandoned the food table, balancing another butterbeer in his left hand and several chocolate frogs in his right, and made his way toward her. She held her hand out to him and just managed to swipe his arm, yanking him down to the floor with a grunt and allowing several chocolate frogs to escape in the process, much to Ron's chagrin.

"Oi, _Lav!_ Relax, will you?"

Hermione's head started to buzz. She blew out an annoyed but good-natured growl, sending a stray wisp of hair flying up into the air above her head, while the last and most surprising member of the Room of Requirements group looked on, an amused smile on a face that had successfully succeeded in melting the hearts of the other half of the girls in Hogwarts.

"Yeah, Granger, since losing your mind alone really is no fun," Draco Malfoy drawled lazily, stretched across on the fine leather sofa diagonal the fireplace from Hermione. His black graduation robes, the only robes in the Room of Requirements baring the green and silver Slytherin crest, hung carelessly off the edge of the couch, contrasting sharply with his sleek platinum hair. He smirked at Lavender and Ron. "Apparently you just have to share that achievement to make it worthwhile."

Lavender laughed to herself and began to mutter, "She doesn't have to, I already lost mine _ages_ ago—"

"Will all of you just _be quiet!"_ Hermione finally exploded in exasperation, throwing the knapsack over her head.

The buzzing immediately silenced, save Harry's yelp of, "Duck and cover!" He shoved his head between his knees and covered it with his hands just in time for the empty knapsack to bounce off his back and hit the floor. "Ow, Mione! That one hurt!"

The brunette ducked her head, burying her face in her hands. "Sorry, Harry, wasn't aiming for you," she mumbled with a sigh, accepting the knapsack back from him without looking up. She couldn't really blame them for being so light-hearted. Though Harry had yet to kill Voldemort, they still thought that the war was swinging their way. _Well, s'pose I should let them have their fun while they can,_ she thought, gulping in several breaths to calm her overwhelmed mind.

Draco swung his feet up and over to the ground, sitting up and leaning back against the sofa. He held out his hand toward a visibly frustrated Hermione. "The Head Girl clearly has something to say," he announced in a typical drawl. "Let her speak." When she lifted her head slightly, he chivalrously winked one deep blue eye at her. "Do go on."

"How thoughtful of you, ferret boy," she teased the blond, though she gave him a grateful smile, which he returned with a characteristic smirk.

It had been two years since Draco Malfoy had turned, and there were times when Hermione still had a bit of difficulty accepting his… well, his completely new personality. He had never done anything to disprove her trust since then, however, and throughout several hard-fought battles and close saves, Hermione had to admit that she trusted Draco Malfoy. She did. Her first year self would have called her current self totally and utterly insane, but now she had no reason not to… save for the fact that he _was_ Draco Malfoy.

The next time Hermione spoke, however, her voice had morphed from lightly bantering to the solid, authoritative tone that could only belong to a Head Girl of Hogwarts.

"All right. Here's the plan…"


	3. Have You Ever Given Up Everything

_The next time Hermione spoke, however, her voice had morphed from lightly bantering to the solid, authoritative tone that could only belong to a Head Girl of Hogwarts. Hermione prized her ability to command her voice. Each level she took it to, from gentle and caring, to teasing and playful, to sharp and clever, to commanding and knowledgeable, was equally alluring, equally effective…and equally her._

"_All right. Here's the plan…"_

**Chapter 3: A Mad and Last Ditch Plan**

Friday, May 29, 1998

12:04 A.M.

Hermione turned her long-lashed eyes toward Ginny, wondering where to even begin.

Although the littlest Weasley was a year younger than Hermione, Hermione had always felt a mixture of parental concern and tremendous kinship toward Ron's younger sister. Although her friendship with Ron and Harry was as strong of bonds as friendship could ever be, she had always longed for someone with whom she could share all her concerns about the typical "girl stuff." Harry and Ron, bless their hearts and try as they might, just couldn't figure out the feminine mystique, and Hermione wasn't about to take a few weeks out of her valuable and possibly short-lived life to explain it to them.

Ginny, however, had been the answer to Hermione's prayers, so to speak, and the girls' relationship had become even stronger after Ginny had joined up with the D.A. and Harry. As the war began to silently, indifferently snatch the lives of far too many Hogwarts students, family, and friends, Ginny and Hermione were rarely seen without the presence of each other or Harry or Ron.

That was what had brought all six of them together, really.

Hermione eventually decided the short and sweet – or sour, depending on how one looked at it - version would probably be best. No padding, no working up to it. If there was one thing Harry, Ron, Ginny, Draco, and Lavender could handle, it was the truth, no matter how ugly it was.

"I've spoken to Dumbledore," she started heavily, gnawing at her lower lip thoughtfully in an effort to stall the inevitable. At the same time, she noticed Harry send her a secret, familiar, teasing grin, as he often liked to do when she was acting far more serious than the situation called for.

_If only you knew, Harry_.

Still, she couldn't stop her solemn expression from softening considerably, her affectionate face sending him a silent hello.

Harry.

With him, she had been through thick and thin, whether it was searching for a giant named Grawp, plunging through a misted, moonlit Forbidden Forest while being pursued by a werewolf, or fighting Death Eaters back-to-back after unwittingly stepping out of Three Broomsticks and into the middle of a battlefield during the last Hogsmeade visit. She and he had never missed their fair share of brushes with death... and they had both survived every encounter.

"Apparently, the information we've been receiving is wrong. He doesn't feel that we have the means to win this war," Hermione continued slowly, pausing when five startled pairs of eyes fixed onto hers. Mentally, she shifted through everything Dumbledore had shared with her. "And quite honestly, now that I think about it, neither do I."

Ron's completely readable, ever-mischievous hazel eyes abruptly connected with Hermione's. Now, however, there was less sparkle to them than usual, and he remained completely oblivious as his hand slowly went limp, the few remaining chocolate frogs squirming out of his grasp and frantically hopping away.

She had to smile. There was no doubt that she and Ron had had their share of fire fights. There was no doubt that, for a few years, a very real spark had existed between them that could have, perhaps, ignited to something more… had not a series of inalterable events been set into motion that had sent the both of them into very opposite directions.

Ron had discovered the glory of the Quidditch, the excitement of battle that war had brought and his particular adeptness at duelling, and the fun-loving love of Lavender Brown.

Hermione had discovered her parents—her entire home, really— lying in smoking, fiery ashes on the day that she had returned home from her fifth year, the excitement and release that nearly every form of dancing imaginable had brought to her during the long, difficult summer after her parents' murders, and the fact that Draco Malfoy was actually an excellent dancer and in constant supply throughout the school year.

Not that the latter meant anything. Not at all.

"Our forces are outnumbered and out-skilled." Hermione tiredly began ticking off her fingers. "Dumbledore just told me that Voldemort has launched a counterattack on the Continent as well as here, and his army's size is exploding exponentially. _Exponentially_. All the last minute hold-outs, all the fair-weather friends, the giants, the vampires… they've all gone over to Voldemort's side. There's no point in denying it, Harry," she added quickly as Harry began to open his mouth in protest.

He snapped it shut just as speedily, and she again sighed heavily, shaking her head. "Even if you _did_ get the chance to defeat Voldemort…" Her voice caught for a moment, then lowered grimly. "The rest of them wouldn't stop coming. You know they won't. There's enough of them that they have no reason to give up simply because they lost their leader."

Harry looked like he was about to object again, but he instead turned his green gaze away from her and studied his hands. "Yeah, that's about right," he muttered, echoing her sigh.

Draco reached out across the length of the fireplace and tugged on a loose strap of Dumbledore's –and now hers', Hermione assumed — very randomly-given knapsack. His expression curious and fully alert despite the hands of the clock, which were steadily ticking into the early morning hours. "So, let's hear about this mad, last ditch plan of yours, Granger."

And Draco Malfoy.

Hermione had always known him as… as, well, the pure-blooded, prejudiced pain in the arse. But everything had changed before sixth year had even begun.

The details of whatever had taken place on that summer night in June were sketchy at best, but the facts remained: Lucius Malfoy had killed Draco's mother Narcissa and his girlfriend Pansy Parkinson. Draco Malfoy returned to Hogwarts free of the Dark Mark, free of his previous discrimination toward Muggle-borns, Muggles, and other people he had previously disliked in general… and free to become one of the Order of the Phoenix's most informed spies.

Hermione had found this complete turnaround somewhat baffling, given the extreme change as well as the speed at which it had occurred, yet Draco had been willing to work with Harry and Ron (to their reluctance), had proven himself true in tight situations, had volunteered himself for her use whenever she needed that dancing release, and had not complained much when she actually took him up on the offer.

"What makes you think I have a mad, last ditch plan?" she asked, smiling innocently over at him, the reflection of the flames from the fire dancing across both his face and hers.

He shook his head at her, tisking. "Please, Granger. I haven't been Head Boy with you for the entire year without learning a few things. I can read you like a book." At her horrified expression, he smirked and added with a bit of reluctance, "And you _did_ begin this entire thing with, 'Alright, here's the plan…' "

"Oh, you _Slytherin!" _she exclaimed in mock irritation. Suddenly, the knapsack in her hands suddenly seemed to be there for one reason only, so she had no choice, really, but to take aim and chuck the thing at Draco's head.

The blond instantly dodged with all the reflexes of a skilled Seeker and caught the knapsack with one hand. His eyebrows shooting up toward the ceiling, he shook a finger at her warningly. "You try that again, Granger, and I'm going to take this thing away from you forever."

"Right on, mate," Ron said heartily, holding his now-fixed bottle of butterbeer up to Draco in a toast before taking another swig of its contents.

"Oh, stop it, you two. This is _serious."_ The smile began to fade from Hermione's face as she realized what she was going to have to say next. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she dove in. "The point of this entire conversation is the reason Dumbledore called me up to his office in the first place. He thinks that our only chance to stop all this madness once and for all is by travelling back to 1944."

Lavender tumbled off Ron's lap and banged flat on the floor. _"Wha-at?"_ she exclaimed in disbelief, the carpet partially muffling her voice so the question sounded more like, _"Phuumph?"_ Hermione smiled inwardly, having long since become accustomed to Lavender's flair for the dramatic. "I thought…. I _thought_ I just heard you say _travelling back –_ Now what… what do you mean by that, exactly?"

"Back… in time," Ginny mused slowly before Hermione could answer. "Back to… That's it." An enlightened expression spread across her lightly freckled features. Swiftly, she pulled herself up from Harry and leaning forward eagerly, resting her chin on her hands, her brown eyes staring intently at Hermione. "That's _it_, isn't it?"

Hermione smiled in spite of herself, and nodded. "Very good, Gin, five points to Gryffindor."

Lavender pumped her arm in an excited _Yes!_ and reached her arm back, giving Ginny an upside-down high-five. Ron rolled his eyes, stretching one long arm up from his spot on the carpeted floor and barely managing to nudge Ginny's leg with the tip of his finger. "Well, bully for you, then, Ginevra, care to share with the class?" he asked sardonically.

Ginny cocked her head sideways, looking down at her brother in amusement. "I don't see why I should, since I somehow get this strange sense that you were mocking me back there, brother dear," she said in a miffed tone of voice. "Do you feel the mocking vibes, Lav?"

"_Ooooooo,_" Lavender chorused, raising her hands up in front of her face and wiggling her fingers ominously at Ron before covering her mouth and collapsing into giggles.

Ron stared at his girlfriend in horror and moved several inches away from her. "_Never_ do that again. Please."

As Lavender glared at him and started arguing that he never appreciated her 'talents,' Hermione chuckled, relishing the moment before she knew that things would take a sudden turn to the serious side. As Ginny suddenly hopped in on the side of Lavender, however, Hermione just opted to sink farther down into her seat, nearly getting dumped off onto the floor as the rocker tilted forward.

Apparently, it wasn't possible to Ron to have a truly argument-free relationship with any woman in his life, she thought sardonically, and, after her discussion with Dumbledore, she just didn't have the energy to jump in the midst of it and break it up. Holding back a groan, she met Draco's amused eyes and muttered, "Stun me, _please."_

"Or maybe just all of them," he countered with a wink and a nod toward the squabbling redheads and dirty blond.

Needless to say, Hermione was relieved when Harry finally resolved the argument by telling Ron and Lavender to take it outside or shut it. Ginny took up her analysis again. "All right, so Dumbledore wants us to go back in time and stop Voldemort before he has the chance to rise to power." She leaned back, pulling her elbows off her knees, and crossed her arms in superiority. "Now, am I right, or am I right?"

"I didn't think you could do that, though. Change the past," Harry interjected, his eyes pensive. He glanced questioningly at Hermione. "I mean, you could – look at third year – but with something this drastic, wouldn't you end up, I don't know, doing something to stop yourself from ever being born and generally mess up the entire timeline?"

"Only in Muggle fanfiction," Hermione replied with a weak grin, impatiently jamming a fallen lock of hair behind her ear. "The Old Magick tried and true spell for time travel actually works quite differently… nothing at all like a time turner, actually. For example, instead of changing the entire future, from, say, 1944 onward, you can only affect the future of the world immediately a_fter_ you go back. The changes would only begin to be reflected here, in our world, the moment we leave."

She paused, gesturing with her hands as she tried to express the general but somewhat complicated intricacies of the time travelling spell. "That's all right, though, because basically, that would be the time that we are, in essence, trying to change in the first place. Not _the _future, in general, but _our_ future… from this year onward."

The confusion was evident in Lavender's face.

Hermione bit her lift thoughtfully. "You see, in the case of the spell Dumbledore favours using, if something in the past change due to its use, two alternate dimensions are immediately created: the original dimension, the one from which the time travellers came, in which the past change is not reflected until the moment the travellers actually go back in time… and the world to which the travellers went. That world would continue to evolve in the way it was changed, if that makes sense. So, in that past world where the change, the future would necessarily repeat itself exactly."

She paused, making sure that she hadn't totally lost any of them. Not that they weren't intelligent enough to follow it, but more often than not, she'd catch Ron falling asleep next to Lavender. "Of course, most of this is purely theoretical," she musingly added as an afterthought. "No respectable, written records of successful time travel exist, despite the presence of a spell for it."

"Yes." Draco was shaking his finger at her in agreement. "Yes, I think I've heard of this. It's called _Impartus Infinitivum._ It's extremely volatile Old Magick. Illegal now. Most experienced wizards would never hope to even complete the spell in their lifetime. I don't doubt Dumbledore could do it, though." He let his words momentarily hang in the air before he went in for the kill. "Last I heard, it was also said to be irreversible."

Hermione swore she could hear a pin drop on the far side of the Room of Requirement. _What would I do with Draco? _That had been the one piece of info she herself had been most hesitant to share, and with good reason: Who in their right mind would want to go once they heard they would be stuck in the past for life? Would the effects of this plan really be worth the price they would all have to pay?

Ginny was no exception. Her mouth fell open, her face a mask of shock, and she stared at Draco incredulously. "You mean we can't _come back?" _she all but gasped.

Draco glanced at Hermione, nodding as if giving her back the floor, and Hermione heaved a large breath. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "He's right, no counter spell for it has been found."

Ginny's steely hazel gaze swung from Draco to Hermione. "You _knew_?" she exclaimed, disappointment and anger lacing her words. "Don't you think you could have mentioned _before _you got us excited, gave us the idea that we might have a chance to defeat Him, that if we did this, we'd have to leave our family, our friends, everyone we know… _permanently?_ Look, Hermione, I realize you don't have much family left to lose, but some of us still do!"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Ginny looked horror-struck, and the room again fell deathly silent. Just as it had normally been with Harry's parents, bringing up what had happened to Hermione's had become as much of a taboo. The brunette stared at her friend in shock, her chest feeling as if someone had just plunged a knife through it. Against her will, memories of that nightmarish day a year and a half earlier swept through her mind…

"You know, Gin," she said slowly, drawing out the words as if tasting them for the first time, "You're right." Her voice began to gain momentum as she looked resolutely at the auburn-haired girl.

"You're absolutely right! Let's stay. Let's _not_ go back and _not_ take what might be the best, the _only_ chance we'll have to save what's left of our friends and our family. Let's just selfishly stay here and watch with a bag of popcorn in hand as Voldemort overruns the rest of Europe by sheer numbers alone. And, while we're at it, we might as well tell the house elves to set out stations of biscuits and tea for the Death Eaters as they walk into Hogwarts –"

"All right, all right, you've made your point effectively," Ginny snapped, her face flushed. She glanced at her lap guiltily. "Look, Mione, I'm sorry I brought up your parents… It's just that everything is happening extremely fast..."

Hermione sighed. "It's all right." She tilted her curly head back and gave Ginny a tired but understanding smile. "I know. I do." She noticed Harry glance between his girlfriend and his best girl friend, and she sent him a silent plea with her eyes. _Harry. Please. This could be our only chance._

He read her, his face clearly torn between this world and the past without wanting to show it. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime to Hermione, he gave her a small nod and the faintest hint of a cheerless, determined half-smile. Sliding his arm out from around Ginny, he leapt off the sofa. "Right then, you lot, up and at 'em. We've got fifty plus years worth of stuff to pack!"


	4. Have You Ever Become Someone Else

_Hermione sighed. "It's all right." She tilted her curly head back and gave Ginny a tired but understanding smile. "I know. I do." She noticed Harry glance between his girlfriend and his best girl friend, and she sent him a silent plea with her eyes. **Harry. Please. This could be our only chance.**_

_He read her, his face clearly torn between this world and the past without wanting to show it. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime to Hermione, he gave her a small nod and the faintest hint of a cheerless, determined half-smile. Sliding his arm out from around Ginny, he leapt off the sofa. "Right then, you lot, up and at 'em. We've got fifty plus years worth of stuff to pack!"_

**Chapter 4: Hermione Dumbledore Nefertari**

Wednesday, June 2, 1998

12:26 P.M.

"Comfortable clothing wardrobe?"

"Check. Can't very well survive without that, can we? Have you seen what those forties styles were like? Mione, those blokes wore _tight_ trousers!"

"Yes, thank Merlin we're taking a twenty years supply of forties and fifties clothing modified to feel like the clothes of today, I don't think I could stand seeing you in that sort of pain. Or hear you whining about it every time you were out of uniform, take your pick. The Dumbledore Ancestral Library?"

"Erm, check…. Mione, how'd you get that in there?"

"Packing skills, Ron. It you paid a bit more attention to your Mum at the Burrow, you might have been able to get some, too. Now, 1944 sixth and seventh year textbooks so we won't have to make a trip to Diagon Alley?"

"Check, unfortunately. I cannot believe we're repeating Seventh Year. Did I say that I can't believe I agreed to do this? Hermione, do you realize, we've just _graduated?_ We've already suffered though the advanced classes, the utterly useless homework, those _NEWTS..._ Bloody hell, Mione, we have to take the NEWTS again."

"Ron, I honestly hope you didn't just figure that out. Magical MP3 player super mix and MP3 player back up?"

"Check. I never knew Muggles could be so ingenious with their music, brilliant of you to buy a couple last year and get Dumbledore to modify them. I swear, Mione, if those things ever break, I might cook myself."

"Ronald stew, what a delightful image. I'm sure you'd be delicious, Ron, a big hit with the ladies….Um, Malagan's Magically Sealing Condo—_RONALD_ _WEASLEY_! What in _Merlin's_ name are these?"

After spending many a week at the Weasley household, Hermione had all but perfected Mrs. Weasley's angry screech, and Ron cringed instinctively, leaping away from the coffee table as if it was contaminated.

Digging furiously into the giant group supply trunk, Hermione re-emerged brandishing a large pack of magicized rubber. "Good Merlin, I cannot _believe _you!" she fumed in disappointed disbelief. "Haven't you ever heard about waiting to get _married,_ Ronald? And to think I had actually considered going out with -"

She quickly stopped before she could incriminate herself, but Ron stereotypically didn't noticed. Instead, he finally seemed to remember that he was a good six inches taller than her, and he gallantly drew himself up to his full height. "Well, you know what, Hermione, you're not the one having to worry about having safe sex in the first place, so give them _back!"_

On "back," the redhead lunged toward the pack of condoms, but Hermione danced out of his reach, holding up the box. "Stop it, Ronald!"

"Children, children," Draco's voice chided out of nowhere, and the blond strode gracefully into the Room of Requirements wearing a very antique-looking wizard robe. "Dumbledore's going to be here any minute to send us back fifty years in time to save the world. Do you think a scene of you two acting like first years is going to reassure him?"

"_No!"_ Hermione exclaimed with a final, pointed look at Ron. Ignoring Draco's comment, she tossed the box up into the air. As it sailed through the air, the redhead coiled down like a spring, but a second before he leapt up and grabbed it, she whipped out her wand and shot a well-aimed fireball into the ill-fated package.

"Her_mione!" _Ron wailed as wisps of charred paper rained down around the barren Room of Requirements. The smell of burned rubber permeated the air. "You kill me, Mione, d'you realize that? You _kill_ me!"

Draco gave Hermione one of his trademark winks. "Trust me, Weasley, in thirty years, you'll be thanking her," he assured the irritated redhead.

Hermione grinned and started to laugh when Ron scowled and sent a well-aimed kick in the general direction of Draco backside. At the last minute, Draco scooted out of the way and took off across the Room of Requirements with an annoyed Ron in hot pursuit, Ron yelling, "Oy, you! Whose side are you on?"

The thought struck Hermione quite abruptly. Watching Draco and Ron run laps around the Room, all in good fun (at least for Draco—Ron looked like he wouldn't have any problem doing some serious damage to his old archenemy), Hermione suddenly realized how beautiful her life really was.

What was she doing?

Honestly, what was she _thinking_ leaving behind this perfect world where there were new magical research breakthroughs almost every week and utterly comfortable black stretch flares were acceptable for girls to wear and women had more independence in general and MP3 players could be magically wired to play the Weird Sisters and John Mayer and the hottest Latin music since the beginning of time?

But then she remembered.

Visions of the horror of their first encounter with Voldemort in their first year; Ginny's possession in the second year and the terror that the Chamber of Secrets incident had brought about; Pettigrew's return to the Dark Lord in the third; the Dark Mark fiasco at the World Cup; the resurrection of Voldemort; the death of Cedric Diggory in the fourth. Little did she or anyone else expect that his death would be only the first of many, many to come in the years that followed.

The destruction of the Ministry of Magic at the end of their fifth year, but Sirius' death at that disaster was nothing when compared to Voldemort's total assault on Diagon Alley in the sixth, and before the Order of the Phoenix could catch its breath, all of magical London had been completely and utterly destroyed.

But then the war had _really_ hit home, and hit home hard, when Death Eaters attacked Hogsmeade on a Saturday Hogwarts visit near the end of her seventh year. Every student in Hogsmeade, from the smallest first year to the most powerful seventh year, had fought with so much bravery, so much selflessness, that the very memory of their courage sent chills down Hermione's spine…

Despite everything they had done, by the time a team of Aurors arrived, eighty-one students had died in that assault. Over a third of them had been in Gryffindor.

And then there had been her beloved parents.

Hermione had hardly dwelled on the thought when white, burning anger determinedly pulsed through her veins. She swore then, swore on her parents, swore on all of her beloved books and everything that she believed in that she would do _everything_ in her power to ensure that that evilness would never, _ever_ have the chance to make a name for itself. And she would go at it with everything she had.

Yes, she decided resolutely, No matter what happened, even the mere idea of Lord Voldemort would cease to exist after 1944. She had no idea how, or even _who_ would end up doing what needed to be done in the end – though a part of her logically assumed it would be Harry – but, oh yes, it would be done.

_Lord Voldemort, _she thought darkly to the man's 1944 counterpart, _You haven't got the slightest idea of what's about to hit you… but believe me, it's going to hit you so hard that you will never be the same again._

Strangely, her mind hardly felt reassured by this profound declaration of very justified purpose, but before she could dwell on it, Dumbledore entered the Room with Harry close at his side, probably talking tactics. Ginny strolled in beside Harry, her hand casually interlaced with his, the white knuckles of her hand the only giveaway to her true anxiety. Lavender followed closely behind, busily slipping her shrunken trunk and other baggage into a deep pocket of 1940s robes that she had gleaned out of Professor Sprout (and had subsequently needed to shrink significantly).

Everyone seemed uncomfortable and more than ill at ease, even the usually carefree Lavender. Hermione's heart almost stopped with the nervous anticipation of it. It was almost time. She reached a hand back to shove her hair back from her face, and her fingers instead connected with a cold sweat beading on her forehead. _This is insane, _her mind began to chant rather frantically. _This is completely and utterly insane – _

"Ah… If I could have your attention now, please." Dumbledore's calm and, to his credit, still collected voice was doing nothing to reassure her now. The old man himself looked weary and aged, like he had passed his breaking point ten years ago. Anyone could see, from Dumbledore's face alone, that the Light forces were hanging onto life by a thin, worn thread.

A rock dropped into Hermione's stomach and did not leave.

_Dear Merlin, what if we really **are **the last chance?_

"Yes, I see you that are wearing the forties uniform robes the Professors provided. Very good, very good," Dumbledore noted, attempting a weary smile at the six's attire. "Now, as is typical with spells of high difficulty like _Impartus Infinitivum_, pinpointing an exact date of destination is an extremely complicated and advanced magical technique, but I believe I have managed to fine-tune the spell to the extent that you will travel back to September 29th, 1944. To you, that means the first day of classes and the day that the Hogwarts Express will arrive."

"September _29th?" _Lavender repeated with a delighted grin. "Slacking, erm … slacking off a bit on that starting date, are they, Headmaster?"

"School won't let out until June 30th, Ms. Brown," Dumbledore informed her, a trace of humour in his voice.

"It WHA-_pppsst!"_ Lavender's dismayed high-pitched screech was momentarily blocked by her intruding wad of gum, which shot out of her mouth in a perfect parabola and, seconds later, sailed right out the cracked-open Room of Requirements door.

"Whoa!" Ron swivelled his head back and forth between the open door and his girlfriend's surprised face. "Whoa… Nice aim, Lav!"

"Thanks!" she said brightly, grinning and slapping Ron an energetic high-five, then squeezing up to him, tossing her long, blond-streaked hair, and giving him an energetic kiss.

Hermione couldn't help but shake her head and smile. She had long since concluded that this was their way of putting aside their nervousness – acting as if absolutely nothing was the matter at all. Ignored them further, she held up the old, worn knapsack that Dumbledore had given her five days earlier. "Excuse me, Headmaster. What's this for?"

Dumbledore's eyes took on an unexpected twinkle, and he glanced from the bag to Hermione. "Well, if the bag will become what I hope it will become… You shall only find out if your purpose is fulfilled, Ms. Granger." He locked his piercing gaze on hers. "I assume you _do _have a very specific purpose in mind for this task, do you not?"

"Erm…" _Bugger, another one of his cryptic answers._ Hermione quickly thought back to her earlier resolution. "Yes, sir, I believe I do," she answered cautiously.

"Very good." He continued on without touching anymore on the subject, to a frustrated Hermione's chagrin. "When you arrive in 1944, you'll need to contact me immediately," he said briskly, reaching into his robes and pulling out an extremely large, thick envelope, "and give me this."

He held the package out to Hermione. Quickly, her eyes travelled down his arm to land on the package, surprised. Slowly, she reached out and took it, sending the Headmaster an inquisitive expression. "May I ask what this is, sir?"

Dumbledore patted it almost fondly. _"That, _my dear, is an indispensable packet that explains, to my past self, the conditions and relative circumstances of your unexpected arrival: That you are all time travellers with a required task to complete, no questions asked, as well as previous school records. I highly recommend you share this information with no one, and I repeat _no one_ else. I have also enclosed a smaller envelope, addressed to Headmaster Dippet, outlining the details of your transfer from the Wizarding Academy of the Sun."

A wave of enlightenment abruptly swept ever Hermione, and, with Dumbledore's final sentence, she nearly every remaining piece of their puzzle falling smoothly into place. "The Wizarding Academy of the Sun?" she eagerly repeated with a smile. "You don't mean to say, sir, the legendary Egyptian magical institute that would have been the oldest in the world, had it been real, dating back more than 6,000 years to the ancient Egyptian civilizations? The one that the magical world believed actually did exist, somewhere, until the theory was disproved in 1981?"

_Which, of course, will not be a problem in 1944, _her mind concluded triumphantly.

When Dumbledore gave a hint of a smile and nodded, Hermione sucked in a respectful breath. She quickly worked out all the kinks in her mind, and a devious, concurring half-grin spreading across her face. This could work. They really might be able to pull this off. "Headmaster, you _are_ good."

"The best," Dumbledore agreed, his eyes twinkling.

"And modest, too," Lavender muttered. She giggled and dodged a tickling charm that he quickly sent her way. "Headmaster, how _could_ you?" she exclaimed indignantly, straightening her robes with a huff. "This is serious business!"

Hermione choked and probably would have laughed at the irony of Lavender's declaration had she not been so tense herself. "So that's our story, then?" Harry asked, shifting his wand into his back pocket and crossing his arms. "That we went to this school until now? Don't you think the fact that none of us even _speak _Egyptian might prove to be a bit of a problem there?"

Hermione had already given this some thought, and she jumped in before Dumbledore could reply. "No, actually," she said. "We won't… Well, I have a really fantastic idea for that; I'll tell you when we get there." The moment the words left her mouth, she almost smiled. Almost. She had subconsciously moved from 'IF we get there' to 'WHEN we get there.' At this point, any kind of progress was worth it!

Dumbledore nodded. He seemed to be crossing off lines on a mental checklist. "And you all have taken the names I recommended? Ginny, Ron, it would not be wise to keep the name Weasley, your grandfather is a fifth year. You will be taking on the surname West, yes? Harry, you previously expressed your desire to change your name to Harry Evans; that's a common wizarding surname as well as a Muggle one, good, good… And Draco, you clearly cannot keep the name Malfoy, Calugala is going to be a seventh year as well…"

"Du Lac," Draco said instantly, idly studying his hands. "Draco du Lac."

"Du Lac?" the elder man echoed, nodding thoughtfully to himself. "Yes, an old French magical family name; that will suit you well, although I do recommend learning a few lines of French before you get there…. Lavender, Brown is such a common surname, you shouldn't encounter a problem with it…" Finally, his eyes landed on the former Head Girl. "And you, Hermione?"

Hermione quickly sketched out the reasoning she had come up with at two in the morning the night before. "I was planning on keeping the name Granger, Headmaster. Since I'm a first generation witch, my name shouldn't be a source of interference with anyone else in the magical world."

Ohhh, that look. Hermione did _not_ like the calculating gaze Dumbledore rested upon her then. "No, Ms. Granger, I actually have a slightly different plan for you," he said slowly, as if still considering what he was about to tell her. _Wonderful, _she thought as he continued, "I would feel infinitely more comforted if none of you travelled back to the volatile time as evident Muggle-borns."

_Evident Muggle-borns_…? Totally lost, Hermione jerked her head forward slightly, her right ear cocked toward the Headmaster. And Hermione did not relish being totally lost. "But Headmaster," she said uncertainly, "I _am_ a Muggle-born."

"I do realize that Ms. Granger," Dumbledore said with a small smile and a shake of his head. "With a surname like Granger, however, I fear you would become an obvious target should things not work out in the way we hope they will. As such, I have taken the liberty of fashioning a full name which I think would be best you adopted…" The elderly man paused for breath before dropping the bomb. "Hermione Dumbledore Nefertari. That's right, Ms. Granger." he added, smiling more fully when Hermione's mouth fell open in utter astonishment. "I am making you my niece."

His _niece_? He wanted _her_ to claim relation to the greatest wizard of the twentieth century? Again, Hermione found herself distantly wondering if the man was insane. Giant, dark spots clouded her vision of the Headmaster before her, and she nearly felt faint... "And 'Nefertari?' " she finally managed to choke out.

"One of the oldest wizarding names in the world, Ms. Granger," Dumbledore explained, "running through the ancient Egyptian crown itself until the civilization collapsed several millenniums ago. I also took the liberty of putting proof of your new bloodline in your trunk before you closed it."

Hermione's hand automatically jumped to her pocket, fingering the shrunken trunk. _And I won't even ask what that proof consists of, _she thought, her mind still whirling in shock at the honour that Dumbledore had, for some reason, decided to bestow upon her._ Sweet Merlin… Hermione Dumbledore Nefertari_…._Dumbledore_ Nefertari… _One of the oldest wizarding names in the world_…

Draco shook his head at the irony of it all. "For someone who takes pride in being a Muggle-born, Granger," he drawled helpfully, "you should probably be aware that, not only is our Headmaster making you his niece, he's basically making you about as pure-blooded as they come."

Dumbledore chuckled. Wordlessly, still in a partial shock and wondering what exactly she had done to warrant this extraordinary treatment, Hermione nodded in acceptance. "All… All right. I'll take it," she answered faintly.

"Very good. And now that that little matter has been settled…" The Headmaster's clear blue eyes suddenly became sorrowful again. Hermione vaguely understood his feeling of loss... to say that she, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Lavender, and Draco would be greatly missed would be a severe understatement. Their exit would only be six more funerals Dumbledore and the remaining professors would have to attend, not to mention the remainder of their families...

His voice weighed down with the lives of hundreds, Dumbledore uttered gravely, "It is time."


	5. Have You Ever Travelled Through Time

_The Headmaster's clear blue eyes suddenly became sorrowful again. Hermione vaguely understood his feeling of loss... to say that she, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Lavender, and Draco would be greatly missed would be a severe understatement. Their exit would only be six more funerals Dumbledore and the remaining professors would have to attend, not to mention the remainder of their families... _

_His voice weighed down with the lives of hundreds, Dumbledore uttered gravely, "It is time."_

**Chapter 5: The Only One They Need**

Wednesday, June 2, 1998

12:54 P.M.

At his words, what felt like an electric shock jolted through Hermione's nerves, and all thoughts of taking on the alias of Dumbledore's ancient Egyptian niece swiftly flew out of her mind. _It's time. We are actually going over fifty years back in time. With the help of an illegal spell that is almost impossible to perform. OhMerlinOhMerlinOhMerlinOhMerlin--_

Dumbledore's eyes landed on the closest person to his right. "Why don't you go first, Mr. Malfoy?" he suggested heavily.

Draco blinked, nervously sweeping a wave of platinum hair out of his eyes. "Right." With his right hand, his shoved his wand deep into his pocket and straightened up resolutely. "Let's get this over with, then." Hermione saw a steely, hard edge cut across his face, heard it sweep into his voice, saw him set his jaw stubbornly and steel himself for whatever was to come.

Draco Malfoy was determined.

"Good luck," Hermione muttered to him as he moved to the centre of the Room of Requirements. The special room was specifically free of any furniture due to the repercussions the spell was rumoured to cause. Its walls and floors consisted of rather large stones, eerily reminding Hermione of some sort of prison cell. Feeling a bout of panic suspiciously resembling claustrophobia began to grip her nerves, she shoved it from her mind and instead quickly reached out to catch the blond's hand, squeezing it lightly before he moved out of range.

"Don't need any luck, you know. I'm born with it," he smugly informed her. She rolled her eyes as she gave her that infamous Draco wink and a grin, doing a fabulous job of swallowing his fear. "See you on the other side, Granger."

"Yes, I suppose you just won't be able to be rid of me in that world, either," Hermione airily said with a grin, dropping her hand to her side. The joking smile faded from her face when Dumbledore turned to Draco, his wand raised slightly but still hanging, relaxed, from his hand. Her pounding heart jumped to her throat, and she fought to swallow. _This is it._

Dumbledore, however, wasn't quite ready yet. He wasn't ready to let them go. Hermione could see the affliction sprawled over his face, and it was obvious that it was killing him to do this. Then again, it might very well kill _her_ to do this… Literally. "Don't forget that I taught Transfiguration at the time. _The Transfiguration classroom_," he repeated as if to drive in the point. "You _must_ get to the Transfiguration classroom before anyone else sees you."

"Headmaster, we've gone over the people, places, and things of 1944 Hogwarts at least thirty times since we found out about this whole bloody plan five days ago," Draco drawled, his fingers drumming impatiently on the side of his robe. "We've learned so much about it, it's almost sickening. Don't _worry."_

"Yeah, we know more about them than they do," Ron added. Ginny snorted and shook her head disapprovingly at him, and he crossed his arms defiantly. "Well, we do!" he protested defensively.

"Best do it, Headmaster," Harry advised quietly his old mentor from his place at Ginny's side along the far wall, his hands tightly interlaced with hers. They, along with Hermione, Lavender, and Ron, were standing as far away from Draco and Dumbledore as the room allowed.

For the briefest of moments, Hermione wished that someone was standing beside her like Harry was Ginny, each a rock for the other, and holding _her _hand like that, but she quickly shook her head. _The random things one thinks about at one of the most crucial moments in their life! _

In the foreground, Dumbledore sighed heavily, the tired breath of an old, defeated man. Even his pointy blue-mooned wizard's hat drooped a bit in regret, but he trained his eyes on Draco, his words suddenly clipped and professional. "Very well. Mr. Malfoy, are you prepared for any effects that this spell may cause?"

Hermione's stomach flipped again, and she wondered what she had eaten for breakfast that could have done this to her. Dumbledore's concern was touching, this was true, but he didn't have to phrase the inquiry with an '_Are you prepared to die?'_ air about it!

The Headmaster's question apparently had not reassured Draco in the least, either. "While your thoughtfulness is appreciated, now is a _hell_ of a time to ask," he muttered, sounding irritated. "Look, just do it already, will you?"

His words seemed to be enough to shove Dumbledore the rest of the way through the door, so to speak. His arm stiffened, and he raised his wand. Hermione shivered as a strong gust of wind whipped through the Room, whisking her long mane of dark brown curls around her face. She hastily swept the tresses back out of her eyes, enraptured, as Albus Dumbledore tapped into his famous magic, his initially soft voice rapidly gaining momentum and power, his face almost transfigured in the glow the extensively difficult spell caused…

"Im_par_tus Infini_ti_vum!"

An ear-splitting roar filled the entire room, and a fireball of energy akin to a miniature-scale nuclear blast erupted forth from Dumbledore's wand, rocketing toward a quite wide-eyed Draco. In the blink of an eye, brilliant sparks enveloped him like gold and silver diamonds. In the next heartbeat, the magic—and Draco—imploded to a single, tiny, floating, shimmering speck… and disappeared.

The silence that followed Draco's departure was almost as deafening as the spell's explosion had been. Hermione warily lowered her hands from their place above her eyes, shading them from the now-vanished blinding light. Abruptly, she felt light-headed, and she realized she had been holding her breath the entire time. Automatically, she gasped, her pent-up breath passing her lips with a soft _whoooosh_.

Lavender, meanwhile, pointed a quivering finger at the empty patch of stone where Draco had stood moments before, voicing the thought Hermione was certain was racing through everyone's mind: "Bloody _hell!"_ she managed to choke out. "There is no way that you are getting me even… even _near_ that! I won't!" She stomped her foot. "I won't do it!"

"Then I can perform the spell with you standing as you are," Dumbledore said resignedly, chanting the two now-terrifying words of the time travelling spell before Lavender could even make a run for it. Hermione instinctively shaded her eyes again, letting out a muffled yelp as the powerful gust of wind actually slammed her up against the wall.

Lavender uttered a tiny shriek of surprise before disappearing in a radiant flash of light, and Dumbledore wearily trained his wand on Ron. "Next."

"Yes, I suppose Lav would murder me if I left her there with only Malfoy," Ron muttered to himself and anyone in the general listening vicinity. With a heavy sigh, he stepped forward and threw his arms out wide, as if offering himself up to Dumbledore as a sacrifice. "Er… Hit me," he joked weakly.

Hermione smiled feebly at Ron's upbeat attempt, but the smile vanished quickly, as Ron himself disappeared with a clap of thunder and a pulse of energy. She began to feel nauseous as Harry and Ginny faded into oblivion in the same wholly intimidating way. Of course, Dumbledore had to save her for last. There were so many ways this spell could go wrong. _She_ could end up back in the Stone Age, with Harry in World War I and Ron stuck hanging out with Godric Gryffindor…

No wonder no one was ever _stupid_ enough to use this spell -

"Ms. Granger?"

Somewhere, a voice called her name, but Hermione hardly noticed. If Albus Dumbledore hadn't been the man at the end of the wand from which the _Impartus Infinitivum_ came, she would most definitely have flat-out refused to have anything to do with this cockamamie plan. Going back over half a century just to take down someone who was probably _as_ smart, if not _smarter than_ she was? Had she gone completely mad?

"_Ms. Granger!"_

Hermione's long, dark lashes blinked rapidly, and she jerked back to reality to see Dumbledore standing expectantly before her. Trying not to let off how utterly terrified she was, she gathered every ounce of bravery within her and strolled into place in the centre of the now-charred Room of Requirement. "No turning back now, I suppose. Right, Uncle Al?"

Hermione swore Dumbledore's eyes twinkled then, the same old, familiar spark returned for the briefest of moments. How the man did it, she didn't know, but somehow, those mischievous blue eyes always reminded Hermione that stability still existed in the world. Balance. That, come what may, for every Evil to ever exist… there would also always be a Good. "A parting word, if I may, Ms. Granger?" he asked.

_I can't believe I'm doing this. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Exhale. Plan. Plan, do I even have a plan? Are we going to arrive and just finish off the seventeen-year-old Voldemort immediately? What kind of hare-brained plan is that? What am I **doing?**_

Maybe she did need a little bit of Dumbledore's oftentimes cliché wisdom. "Sorry, Headmaster, go ahead, please," she said, offering the man a weak attempt at a smile. "It just might keep me from running off long enough to get sent back fifty years in time."

Dumbledore effortlessly conjured up a chair and slowly sank into it, very much in the way a very old person would customarily do…. except Albus Dumbledore had never before acted like a very old person. The effects of performing the same intense spell in rapid succession were clearly taking their toll on the aged, grandfather-like man.

"Ms. Granger—Or, should I say, Ms. Dumbledore Nefertari," he began in an inconceivably conversational voice, "I feel that you should know: Over the past few days, I've given you more information on the young Lord Voldemort than I have anyone else."

_Ah-ha!_ Finally, a smile stubbornly pushed its way to Hermione's face through her poorly-weaved composure. "I _wondered_ why they had all finished reading so early!" she exclaimed, smoothing her forties-style, hour-glass cut robes and carefully lowering herself to the floor. She rested her chin on top of her hands, elbows on her knees, and stared at the Headmaster in interest. "And why was I the only one privy to that, may I ask?"

The Headmaster studied her closely. "I trust your mind, Ms. Nefertari," he began carefully, mulling over his words, "But, most of all, I trust your heart. Lord Voldemort has, directly or indirectly, brought much pain to each one of your lives - you and Harry in particular. You've seen the destruction he has caused, the people he has murdered, the lives he has and _is_ ruining… You've seen all the things he has done as the man Tom Riddle chose to become. You've read as full a biography on Tom Riddle's first seventeen years as I could have prepared for you. You may have already drawn whatever conclusions you have drawn on the cold, solid facts."

Dumbledore's voice hitched and hardened suddenly, as it typically did when he was about to make a point. "But you should know, Ms. Nefertari, that at no moment in Tom Riddle's years before and during Hogwarts, none at all, did that boy have a happy childhood." He lowered his intense gaze on Hermione. "No one is born evil, Hermione. It is their lives that make them so."

His words briefly passed through Hermione's ears, but she wasn't sure what, exactly, he meant to imply by them. Was he saying that Lord Voldemort _wasn't_ evil? She doubted that. And anyway, why would he bother telling _her_ this?

In any case, she had more pressing problems to concern herself with. The shrunken trunk in her right robe pocket had begun to dig sharply into her leg, and she speculated, with a minor amount of distress, whether her friends had already gotten tired of waiting for her in the Room of Requirements fifty years ago and had left without her.

_Fifty years ago._

A random but rather ingenious idea, or so she thought, popped into her head. "Headmaster," she began excitedly, "if Harry, Ron, Draco, Ginny, and Lavender have technically been in the past for fifty years, now, wouldn't things in this time be different already? Wouldn't Voldemort and all the Dark Forces have been erased? Turned to dust?"

Dumbledore nudged his head toward the small corner window. "Nothing looks different, does it, Ms. Nefertari?"

Quickly, Hermione straightened up and lifted her chin slightly to peer out the glass… and her heart fell, her tongue scratching the top of her mouth like sandpaper. The ominous black and unnaturally green thunderclouds, thunderclouds that could have only been spawned from an intense, powerful magical battle, were still generating themselves in the distance.

"You mean…" Her voice caught, and she sent a mystified glace back at the elderly man. "You mean, it didn't work?" _Sweet Merlin. All this insanity, this extreme preparation, and it **didn't work?**_

That's it.

Hope had died.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore simply answered cryptically. He smiled tiredly and slowly rose to his feet.

_What is wrong with you?_ Hermione wanted to scream. Following his lead, she stiffly climbed off the ground and brushed off her dark robes. _Maybe I'm just a **little** tense right now, but should you **not** be as concerned about this as I am? Oh, this is **such** a bad situation, bad, bad, bad, bad—_

"Perhaps all is lost," he continued thoughtfully. Slowly, his lowered intrigued eyes on her petite form and stepped back, raising his wand slightly in preparation for one last time travel spell. "Or… perhaps they just need _you,_ Ms. Nefertari."

Hermione actually felt her blood chill at whatever connotations that statement held. A short, dry laugh quickly escaped her lips. "Well, that's just lovely, Headmaster, no pressure at all then," she commented cynically, her voice wavering against her will. Yes, ohhhh yes, now, without a doubt, she felt that morning's breakfast in her throat. French toast and bananas, that's what it had been. And with a touch of maple syrup, just enough to give it that slightly sugary taste—

_HERMIONE, GET YOURSELF BACK ON TRACK!_

It suddenly occurred to her how truly frightening it could be for one to see Albus Dumbledore's wand pointed directly at him. Or her. Dumbledore's gaze was tremendously solemn, his wand by now fully at the ready. "I have no idea what you have planned, Hermione—"

_That makes two of us._

"—nor do I want to know. But… Remember this, Hermione, remember this despite whatever you may be considering: Sometimes the most difficult battles are not won by fighting."

Hermione's intelligent eyes narrowed in confusion, but before she could even begin to contemplate whatever _that_ was supposed to be telling her, a brilliant flash of white light blinded her, rained down around her, her feet yanked off the ground, and the world as she knew it went completely and absolutely black.


	6. Have You Ever Been Born Again

"_Remember this, Hermione, remember this despite whatever you may be considering: Sometimes the most difficult battles are not won by fighting."_

_Hermione's intelligent eyes narrowed in confusion, but before she could even begin to contemplate whatever **that** was supposed to be telling her, a brilliant flash of white light blinded her, rained down around her, her feet yanked off the ground, and the world as she knew it went completely and absolutely black._

**Chapter 6: Dead and Buried**

Monday, September 29, 1944

1:11 P.M.

The Room of Requirements had not changed. Except, of course, that it was no longer charred.

Hermione's head was throbbing, and she felt vaguely like the Hogwarts Express had just slammed into her from behind. To her left, she heard a very atypical groan from Draco and, through several stars and black dots across her vision, saw him sit up dazedly. "Errrrr… di' i' wor'?"

"Uhhhhmmm….lehmma see," Harry slurred as if he had just been Confounded. Unsteadily, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, his glasses hanging crookedly off his nose, and walked in a dangerously drunken manner over to the door. He pulled it open, nearly falling over backward in the process, and poked his head out into the corridor. "Uhhhhmmmm… ugh..."

"_Ahhhhhh_," Ginny moaned out of the blue, sprawled out on the ground. Very gingerly, she flipped onto her stomach. As soon as she did, she covered her head with her arms as if the simple act had been on of excruciating pain. "Ach!"

The nirvana-like relief Hermione had felt after being imploded into a tiny speck, travelling through time, and actually surviving was quickly replaced by an acute fear that the time travel spell had reduced her friends' brains to the size of peas. She _had_ to find out. "Harry, in English, please…" she managed to gasp out, wincing as she delicately sat up. "I haven't _quite_ mastered the art of caveman lingo."

She half expected Harry to grunt back. Instead, he shot her a withering look and straightened his glasses, his messy hair far more mussed more than usual. It was sticking so far out of his head in all directions, he could have passed for someone recently hit by lightning. He seemed about ready to shoot back some sort of snarky reply when Ron let out a repulsively loud snort, jerked straight up into a sitting position, and collapsed with a groan again.

The entire situation unexpectedly stuck Hermione to be a great deal more hilarious than it rightfully should have been. Ginny, eyes wide as she lifted her head off her arms in just enough time to see her brother hit the ground, seemed to be thinking along the same lines, and snickered. That was all Hermione needed. She lost it, and Lavender and Ginny rapidly followed suit.

"Oh… Sweet Merlin!" Hermione gasped between bouts of laughter and simultaneous twinges of pain. "I can see we'll have no trouble… positively _dazzling_ them with our… our wit and charm!"

A wily grin broke out across Ron's face. He held up a finger, motioning for them to wait for it, and, too late, Hermione realized what her obviously mental best friend was about to do….

"_Take cover!"_ Harry howled, flinging himself out into the fifth floor hallway as Ron opened his mouth and let out the most repulsive sound Hermione had ever heard, about a good twenty seconds in length and akin to a mixture of a monster bullfrog and a bullhorn. She uttered a stifled shriek and jumped into lap of the person nearest her: Draco; Ginny buried her head in her hands once more, and Lavender covered her ears, screeching, _"Oh_!"

The extreme stress of that morning must have been too much for Hermione to take without a grain of salt, because she was the first to begin cackling maniacally, burying her face into a smirking Draco's shoulder. Her laughter only worsened as Harry weakly crawled back into the Room of Requirement, chortling to himself and generally treating the incident with more humour than it really deserved to have.

By now, Lavender was a mess, tears streaming down her face as she collapsed into Ron, pounding his shoulder good-naturedly and giggling, "Ewwwwww, _Ron_!"

And then, almost like a punch in the face, Hermione felt the thick envelope Dumbledore had given her, still clutched in her hand - burning through it, it seemed… pulling her back to the grave reality of what they had to do. "Guys….haha, we —Harry, stop it!— We need to get serious!"

"Can I…. help you six?"

Startled at the unfamiliar voice that had seemingly come out of nowhere, Hermione leapt back out of Draco's lap and landed hard on the floor. "Sssssshhh!" she hissed at her friends, jabbing Lavender with her elbow. Pulling herself gracefully to her feet in an attempt to preserve whatever chance was left of making a good first impression, she straightened her robes, flipped her curls back over her shoulders for reassurance, and glanced, for the first time, at the man in the doorway.

Instantly, her eyes widened, and she nearly stumbled backward in shock. _What are the odds of this?_

"Oh my _God_, he's a redhead!" Lavender cackled the moment she caught sight of the tall man.

Both Ron and Ginny glared at the thoroughly amused girl. "What's wrong with that?" brother and sister demanded simultaneously.

"_Guys!"_ Hermione hissed like an angry mother goose. Here was one of, if not _the, _most important introductions of their mission… and they were still acting immature? She spun and stared sternly at the impish blond-streaked brunette and two redheaded siblings._ "Sssssshh!" _

When Lavender giggled and ducked her head behind Ron, Hermione shook her own head and turned back to face a bemused, though thoroughly confused, younger version of Albus Dumbledore. "Yes, you definitely can," she said in answer to his initial question. She considered sending him a reassuring 'We come in peace,' but instead just settled on handing over the giant envelope.

Dumbledore glanced at the elegant handwriting addressing the package to himself, and his eyebrows shot up. He obviously must have recognized the writing to be his, Hermione thought, nodding toward the envelope. "I strongly suggest you read it, sir. Now."

Dumbledore's eyes, now twinkling and unburdened with the weight of fighting two wars, regarded Hermione thoughtfully before he muttered a charm. A small razor poked out of the tip of his wand, and he slid it along the edge of the envelope. Pulling out its contents, he quickly scanned the first piece of parchment.

Hermione stepped back so she stood beside Harry. He put a comforting arm around her, massaging the back of her neck with his hand. _"Mmmm,"_ she sighed contentedly, closing her eyes, and leaned into his touch, basking in the current silence of the Room. Ginny, Draco, Lavender, and Ron had also gotten to their feet and were interestedly studying this new—old—Dumbledore. He had a mass of red hair and that same ridiculously long bead, still sported half-moon spectacles, and still towered over all of them, except Ron, maybe…

But the aura he released seemed _so_ much younger. Innocent, almost. Hermione couldn't grasp how one person could appear so hauntingly similar and so extraordinarily different at the same time.

Dumbledore finally finished the letter and carefully folded it into a tiny, geometrically perfect square. With a bemused glance at the six curious eyes watching his every move, the man held the note out in front of him, muttered, "Incendio," and set the only hard proof of their history—or future, Hermione supposed—up in flames.

_And there we go,_ Hermione thought, watching the flames dance before her eyes. The edges of the paper quickly browned and curled up until the parchment turned to ash, falling to the floor and scattering like dust. _That's it, then. _Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, and Draco Malfoy had become, and would forever remain, dead and buried. In that instant, Hermione Dumbledore Nefertari, Harry Evans, Ron West, Ginny West, and Draco du Lac were born in their place.

Dumbledore was pensively silent, as if gathering his thoughts. After a moment, he held up the second, thicker envelope, and read the address. "I will ask no questions of any of you, nor do I want you to reveal anything of your past - or future, should I say - lives to me," he said. "Or anyone else, for that matter. It is best that no one knows."

Hermione smiled, relieved that at least the very first phase of the plan – whatever plan it was – had been taken care of. "Actually, that's what you told us before we left, too."

Dumbledore seemed started, but he slowly mirrored her smile. "Well, I supposed some things will never change, my… dear niece Hermione, I presume?"

"Of course," Hermione answered with as charming of a smile she could give him. Dumbledore's note to himself really must have explained a lot, and she had to credit both the man's past and future self for being so flexible and accepting. Her smile turned slightly naughty. "It's _so good_ to finally see you again, Uncle Al! It's been _far_ too long!"

Draco snorted but skilfully turned it into a cough. Hermione shot him a covertly dirty look, but Dumbledore was definitely smiling now. "Well then, Hermione, I suggest we go at once to speak to Headmaster Dippet of the transfer of my favourite niece and her five closest friends from the most prestigious wizarding academy on earth…."


	7. Have You Ever Formed A Plan

**A/N:** FYI, Hermione's new name isn't her _real _heritage… she is still, in the blood sense, Hermione Granger. The main issue is: She will be dealing with the Muggle-hating Lord Voldemort, and Dumbledore doesn't want any hitches in this mission, so best he not create any by creating an instant hostility (from TR) toward one of his agents (Hermione).

"_Well, I supposed some things will never change, my… dear niece Hermione, I presume?"_

"_Of course," Hermione answered with as charming of a smile she could give him. Dumbledore's note to himself really must have explained a lot, and she had to credit both the man's past and future self for being so flexible and accepting. Her smile turned slightly naughty. "It's so good to finally see you again, Uncle Al! It's been far too long!"_

_Draco snorted but skilfully turned it into a cough. Hermione shot him a covertly dirty look, but Dumbledore was definitely smiling now. "Well then, Hermione, I suggest we go at once to speak to Headmaster Dippet of the transfer of my favourite niece and her five closest friends from the most prestigious wizarding academy on earth…."_

**Chapter 7: Walk Like An Egyptian**

Monday, September 29, 1944

5:44 P.M.

"Have I already mentioned that I don't like Dippet?" Harry asked a little more than three hours later, leisurely lounging back across the length of an entire Gryffindor bench in a completely deserted Great Hall. Every place at all four massively long tables was set, already prepared for the students arriving on the Hogwarts Express later that evening.

"Keep it down, and Dumbledore - modern Dumbledore, I mean - did mention that he was something of a weasel," Ginny mused in a low voice, lying farther down the same bench that Harry was on.

"He was indecisive. Couldn't make up his mind long enough to get a job done," Ron said, stretched out along a Ravenclaw table bench. He shifted his hands behind his head as he stared up at the swirling, setting sun and purple and pink clouds on the ceiling. "I mean, a guy's got to stick to his guns. And he's not just any guy, he is _the_ guy."

"_Great_ observation, Ron." Hermione turned her head to the right and rolled her eyes over at Ginny from her bench on the opposite side of the Gryffindor table. The curly brown top of her head was just touching the silky blond top of Draco's, who was mirroring her position along the other half of the bench. She raised her hand into the air and, with her fingertip, began to gently trace the outline of a reddish-orange cloud near the disappearing sun.

"You know, Hermione," Lavender suddenly said, sitting up and gazing thoughtfully at the reclining brunette, "If you're going to walk like an Egyptian, talk like an Egyptian… I've been thinking up some ways to make you _look_ more Egyptian."

_Oh sweet Merlin. Not this._

"Yeah, that's right," Ron exclaimed, flipping over in his side and squinting over Harry and under the table in order to get a good look at Hermione. "I don't know… your eyes are sort of uniquely almondy-shaped, I think that's a good thing… Maybe you could, I don't know, outline them with that eye stuff you use or something? When we went to Egypt, we saw some mummies, and their eyes were like that—"

"Since I haven't been dead for over 6,000 years, Ron, thanks, but _no,"_ Hermione interrupted stubbornly, her finger moving on to another cloud.

"Aw, Hermione, you at least have to be tan. All real Egyptians are tan." Lavender sighed reluctantly and grudgingly added, "That's _it,_ I promise. I know a great tanning spell. And maybe I'll darken your hair up just a touch…" She surveyed Hermione's body critically. "You know, that might be all it takes to do the trick…" she mused.

Hermione echoed Lavender's deep sigh, this one in defeat. As much as she hated to admit it, Lavender did have a point: They would have to be both audibly _and_ visibly convincing. "All right, Lav, I'll let you tan me before the Hogwarts Express gets here, good? But let's talk strategy now, you lot. We've got to get our stories as straight as a razor if we're ever going to pull this off."

"We can't speak Egyptian," Harry pointed out instantly.

"No, I don't think that'll be much of a problem," she said, shaking her head and furrowing her brow as she studied the ceiling. "I highly doubt any student or teacher here can speak Egyptian, either – or, if they did, not nearly enough to call our bluff. Gibberish should work well enough if that ever becomes a problem."

Lavender laughed, and Ron raised a volunteering hand from his spot on the bench. "All right, _I'm_ guessing the plan is to follow mini-You-Know-Who around until we get him alone, then blast the bastard back to the last millennium where he belongs," he finished in a low, icy voice, all the anger from two years of war and Merlin knew how long of fear channelled in his final eleven words.

Automatically, Hermione felt the sheer hate she had toward that evil man - no, that evil _thing,_ spring up as it had in her own time - _No, Hermione, relax,_ a calm little voice in the back of her mind called airily as Ginny muttered bitterly, "We'll make him pay before he even knows what hit him."

… _Be the voice of reason in the sea of emotion… Just relax… Relax…_

Miraculously, Hermione actually felt herself deflate, and she took a few, steadying breaths to clear her mind. Maybe this was why Lavender was such a yoga fanatic. "I don't know about you, but I don't especially feel like rotting in Azkaban because we gone and offed some seventeen-year-old without an apparent motive," she disagreed, shaking her head. "I think the best thing to do is to assess the situation thoroughly for a few days, weeks, whatever it takes, before we make any definite plans of destruction."

"She's right, West." Draco rolled over on his stomach, dropping his British accent and taking on an American southern drawl. "See, we gotta go about this real sneaky-like. This isn't some idiot we're dealing with, this is probably one of the smartest sons of a bitches Hogwarts has ever seen. We gotta find out what his game is, and we gotta play it."

Hermione tilted her head backwards, raising her eyebrows at Draco. "Very… _expressively_ put, ferret. I agree with him," she continued in a louder voice, drowning out Draco's inevitable retort. "But I don't want you to be playing some sort of character that isn't really who you – we - are in order to get information, if you know what I mean."

"I see your point," Lavender said slowly. "We're going to be stuck here forever, and pretending to be someone else for that long would be really exhausting."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "Way to put this whole thing in a positive light, Lav," she said as she finished tracing cloud number eight and dropped her finger back to her lap.

"Thank you," Lavender replied cheerfully, climbing off the Hufflepuff bench and moving into a yoga tree pose.

"The thing is, we want to get as close, figuratively speaking, to Voldemort as possible," Hermione said, trying to flip through every piece of information she had on the Dark Lord. "From what modern Dumbledore told us, Voldemort was really very aloof in school. Had a few friends that you couldn't exactly call friends—more like partners in crime, I suppose… Apparently could have had a girlfriend if he wanted to, but Dumbledore said that he oddly ignored every girl who came his way no matter how much she may have thrown herself at him-"

"Which will be changing," Draco stated confidently, and Hermione suppressed the urged to gag. "Seriously, Grang—Nefertari, did you look through this year's yearbook? The sampling of male specimen is far less than desirable, especially if the Dark Lord was at the top of the Vixen's list." He smirked. "I might have to help alleviate some of the weight of that _awful_ burden…"

"The girls aren't too hot, either, you know," Harry mused thoughtfully.

Hermione stared at him, shocked at the words that had just exited his mouth. Never before had she heard Harry Potter say something as superficial as that. "_Harry_!" she gasped.

Ginny groaned, shooting Hermione a knowing look, which Hermione interpreted perfectly: _Men_. Without hesitating, Ginny reached over her head and whacked Harry's leg lightly. "You better keep saying that," she grumbled.

"Yeah, but did you see that, er, that one Slytherin?" Draco asked, snapping his fingers several times in rapid succession. "Um, what was her name … Columbia Salvi! She was hot."

"Oh! _That_ one!" Harry snapped his fingers in agreement and pointed at Draco under the table. "Right she was!"

Letting out a growl, Ginny lifted her wand over her head, and said nonchalantly, "_Expelliarmus_." Instantly, a blue jet of light shot out of Ginny's wand into Harry. Instantly, he flew off the bench, banging into the Ravenclaw table and sending dishware rattling in all directions.

"OW… _Gin_!"

Tilting her head backward, her luscious auburn hair spilling toward the floor, as she did, his girlfriend cooed unsympathetically, "Aw, did that hurt? I'm sorry!" She rolled her neck and resumed staring innocently back up at the ceiling. "Great form, by the way."

Harry groggily picked himself and his glasses off the floor and stumbled back to the Gryffindor bench. "Yeah, great form my ars—"

"_Ugh!"_ Lavender gracelessly fell out of her tree pose and slammed both of her hands on the Gryffindor tabletop with a BANG! "You lot are messing up my concentration!"

"You know, as entertaining as this all is, the Hogwarts Express is arriving in exactly—" Hermione glanced up at the large face clock in the northwest corner of the Great Hall "—one hour and four minutes. Which basically means-"

"Nose to the grindstone, people!" Draco barked in high-pitched imitation, popping his head, upside down, over Hermione's, his blue eyes glittering deviously in an oddly Dumbledore-esque manner. On inspiration, Hermione reached up with both hands and grabbed his neck. "Ack!" he gasped in surprise.

"_Bloody_ hell," Lavender growled. She finally gave up on her tree pose and huffily sat down at the Hufflepuff table to watch Hermione strangle the blond Slytherin. "I don't believe it, she's finally doing it! Go, Hermione! Go! Go! Go!"

"Arrgh… _Nefertari_… leggo…"

"Hey, Mione, when you finish killing Mal—uh, du Lac, I have a question."

"_Arrrr_!" With a grunt, Draco flipped himself off the bench and out of Hermione's grasp. He landed unceremoniously on the floor, gasping for air before glaring at Ron through the various gaps in the Gryffindor table. "Some friend you are, West. Your ex-Head Girl was about to murder me, and you had a _question?"_

"Yeah… that's a cryin' shame, mate, a cryin' shame… Right, Mione, about what you were saying earlier about You-Kno- Voldemort ignoring all the women that came his way," Ron continued in a efficiently professional manner, obviously completely unconcerned about Draco's close demise. Ginny glanced over at Draco and began to laugh.

"What about it, Ron?" Hermione asked, tensing slightly as she wondered what sort of off-handed remark Ron had come up with now.

"Well… What if he's, you know…" Ron trailed off uncomfortably, but at Hermione's '_No, I don't know'_ look, he waved his hands as if they could express his thoughts for him. "What if he's not exactly on the, er, straight and narrow?"

Even Lavender stopped her incessant laughing, and the silence in the Great Hall abruptly became so thick, Hermione could actually hear the low ticks of the distant but huge clock. Finally, Draco held up his hands from his spot on the floor, "If he swings the other way, I'm not going to be the one making the moves! I call _out!"_

Lavender giggled again, and Hermione's body relaxed against the bench again. "Well, erm… interesting thought you had there, Ron, but I think the point Dumbledore was _actually_ trying to is that Voldemort might not feel, so he's going to be extremely difficult to get through to, or get past, depending on how you look at it."

"And what do you propose, O Fearless Leaderette?" Harry asked, still trying to get comfortable back on the Gryffindor bench after his wild flight á là Ginny.

Hermione paused. "I say, we don't go out of our way to get _to_ him," she began dramatically, twirling her wand around the fingers of one hand and a lock of her hair around the fingers of her other. "We make him _want_ to come to us."

Harry gave up trying to get comfortable and sat up, cricking his neck before shifting his piercing green stare toward Hermione in interest. "You've got me hooked, Mione. Don't stop."

"All right, let's think. What are the things that make people appealing?" Hermione held her hands above her head, still lying down, and ticked off her fingers. "Here are a few. Number one: Popularity. Number two: Mysteriousness. Number three: Having something or being someone that other people can't have or don't know about. The last one is where you come in. Each time someone asks you where we transferred from, or why, I want each of you to make up a fabulous work of rubbish. Tonight, I purposely asked Dippet to not announce where we came from specifically for that reason… though I obviously didn't tell _him _that," she added thoughtfully. "Throw it to the wind. _Make_ them wonder."

"Good Merlin, that is good thinking, Hermy!" Lavender exclaimed, and Hermione could almost hear her making up a false storyline as she spoke. "So we can say anything?"

"Oh, yes." A sly smirk emerged, a rare occurrence on Hermione's normally sincere face. "I want you to make those stories good, as long as no ideas of time travel are mentioned. I don't want that being a possibility; it's too close to the truth. But keep the rumours going. Our mystery will only add to our popularity, which reminds me… We're going to have to prepare ourselves for the strong possibility that we might be sorted into different houses."

"Do you really think that we will be?" Ginny asked. She sat up and shaded her eyes from the rays of the setting sun so she could look over at Hermione questioningly. "We got sorted into the same house last time… Well, all except for him." She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder in Draco's direction.

Hermione wagged a finger at her redheaded friend knowingly. "Yeah, but that was because we all wanted to be in Gryffindor... or something to that extent. Ginny, Ron, you know the real reason Gryffindor was your only choice is because it ran in your family. And Harry, the only reason you weren't in Slytherin was because you told the Sorting Hat to not put you in."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—_What_?" Draco interrupted, his ears perking into the conversation.

"That's right, du Lac." Harry smirked contemptuously over at the stunned blond. "Your resident Golden Boy was once a lead candidate for the Snake House."

"Good Merlin, what is this world coming to?" Draco muttered, shaking his head.

Hermione stared directly at Harry, upside down, as she said her next part of the plan. "This time, I want you to let that Sorting Hat put you wherever the wind blows. Yes, even in Slytherin, if it wants," she added at Harry's surprised, almost loathing expression. "We all know that separation can only help us collect more information. Are we all clear on that?"

"Crystal," Ron quipped.

Harry was nodding. "This is good, Mione. We've got a chance, I can feel it. But," he added, his voice hovering warningly, "We _can't_ forget who we're dealing with."

"Oh, we won't," Ginny said darkly under her breath, no doubt remembering her horrifying experience with Lord Voldemort in her first year.

Hermione lay her wand on the table and pulled herself up, meeting each of her friend's eyes. "Whatever you do, _don't_ let him catch you in a lie," she warned, shaking her head grimly. "He's smart; he'll know. Once we've seen how things run here, we'll come up with a solid plan of attack, but we absolutely cannot get him suspicious. This is going to have to go as slowly and carefully as it needs to in order to work."

"And if the slow approach doesn't seem to be working by the end of the year, we'll just off him and go live in Muggleland," Ron interjected under his breath, an eerie sincerity to his voice. "So don't go out of your way to worry about this bloody nonsense; there'll always be a fast way out. _We _have the advantage. Right, Mione?"

For some reason, Hermione's stomach knotted, an uneasy peace settling over her. Yes, they did have a plan. Yes, by all rights, they probably would be more than justified in killing Lord Voldemort. But she had a feeling, a guilty feeling… Rather like if they killed him, they would be lowered to his level of darkness. "Yeah," she muttered, her eyes once again flicking up toward the clock. 6:10. Fifty more minutes left. "Right."

Her thoughts were interrupted by the grating sound of a door sliding open, echoing off the walls of the Great Hall. "Uncle Al at seven o'clock," Draco muttered.

Hermione grinned and glanced over at the teachers' entrance on the far side of the Hall through which Dumbledore had entered, watching him glide — no, more like float — into the Hall. He surveyed the group of six, spread out across the width of three House tables, and, surprisingly, met her eye. "Ms. Nefertari, Headmaster Dippet would like a word."

Hermione sucked in one deep breath, the calmness of a worry-free, currently warless life that had seeped into her being mixing with thrilling anticipation and more than a little fear of whatever was to come. She grinned down at Draco and, in a super-soft voice she knew Dumbledore wouldn't be able to hear, murmured, "Well, du Lac, let the games begin."


	8. Have You Ever Become Head Girl

_Hermione grinned and glanced over at the teachers' entrance on the far side of the Hall through which Dumbledore had entered, watching him glide — no, more like float — into the Hall. He surveyed the group of six, spread out across the width of three House tables, and, surprisingly, met her eye. "Ms. Nefertari, Headmaster Dippet would like a word."_

_Hermione sucked in one deep breath, the calmness of a worry-free, currently warless life that had seeped into her being mixing with thrilling anticipation and more than a little fear of whatever was to come. She grinned down at Draco and, in a super-soft voice she knew Dumbledore wouldn't be able to hear, murmured, "Well, du Lac, let the games begin."_

**Chapter 8: The Past and Future Head Girl**

Monday, September 29, 1944

6:45 P.M.

After a good half hour of being grilled about her previous educational experience by Armando Dippet, Hermione couldn't help but recall Harry's opening words following the time travellers' group meeting with the man in question ("Have I already mentioned that I don't like Dippet?").

Stout and a bit on the podgy side, Dippet sat in the Headmaster's chair with an air of detached indifference unlike any Dumbledore had ever given off and spoke in a higher-pitched voice that reminded Hermione of a droning siren. And that damn grandfather clock was still there.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK

Just as Hermione was about ready to let out a shriek of pure impatience, Dippet whipped out a piece of parchment from the same envelope that the future Dumbledore had sent back in time. The new – old - Headmaster professionally went on to smooth it out on the desk, studying the elegantly scripted charts, numbers, and letters carefully.

He seemed to be going through a mental debate in his mind. Hermione could tell by the way his eyes constantly shifted back and forth between the paper he had just pulled out and another sheet of parchment alongside it, comparing them, considering them.

Without being too obvious, she locked her light brown eyes on the upside-down handwriting and tilted her head slightly to the right, her dark chocolate curls again sweeping across her left eye. Unexpectedly, a dizzying wave of déjà vu washed over her, momentarily pulling her back, back to that first meeting with Dumbledore on the night of her graduation...

The meeting that had started it all.

The brunette gave her head a small, unnoticeable shake. _Come on, Hermione, back to centre!_ she thought to herself encouragingly. Squinting, she narrowed her eyes and refocused on the parchment across the desk from her chair.

And blinked in shock.

_What in Merlin's name…_

Almost immediately, Hermione recognized the writing. It was not Dumbledore's hand; that would have been too easily recognizable to Dippet. No, it was McGonagall's unmistakable, graceful loops that filled out a transcript. A transcript with an elaborate _Academy of the Sun_ insignia.

"As I previously explained to you and the other five transferees," Dippet began, his voice slightly distracted as he every so often continued to ruffle through the parchments, "the student hierarchy at Hogwarts includes two prefects from each year after fourth, and, at the top, one head boy and one head girl. The recipients of the latter titles are chosen from the seventh year as those students with the highest marks. Our Head Boy this year was the most obvious choice we've had in a good many years. Wonderful boy." He frowned and shook his head slightly. "He was the only choice, really…"

_Well, how nice of you to say. Really raises all those other boys' self-esteems._

"Our originally selected Head Girl, however, declined her position when she was notified of it over the summer. Her family moved to France a few years ago, and I believe she intends to transfer to Beauxbatons for her last year. My next choice would have been a Slytherin, Miranda Wilkes," Dippet explained. He seemed to hesitate deliberately, and Hermione leaned toward him to catch the punch line, for she was sure one would follow, though she couldn't quite see what was so suspenseful about the conversation…

"That was until I viewed your… _extremely_ exceptional record."

Hermione' sharp mind didn't miss the implied invitation in his vague words. _Oh my God! Is he asking me to… He **is** asking me! Oh my God! _

Outwardly, she didn't phase in the least as she sat, upper body still poised halfway over the desk, her chin nestled in her cupped hand, her interested eyes never leaving Dippet's expectant face. Frowning slightly, she theatrically mulled over the proposition. "Well, that _is_ a rather large commitment..."

Inwardly, she was about to burst in excitement. The odds of getting to be Head Girl… _two years in a row_… Who _ever_ got to repeat the once in a lifetime opportunity of being Head Girl?

_Dumbledore, you are a god._

"But I'll take it," she finished decisively, trying to hide the suspiciously Draco-like smirk that was dangerously threatening to burst across her face.

Oh, the games had most definitely just begun.

**7: 18 P.M.**

"Harriman, Alice?"

… "RAVENCLAW!"…

Waves of scattered applause.

"Jules, Godfrey?"

"_Godfrey_?" Ron cackled delightedly from a dimly lit side alcove off the Head's table of the Great Hall. He was impatiently hovering near the thin slab of wood separating Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Draco, Lavender, and himself from the entire Hogwarts population, peeking through a gap in the doorway. "I might die of mortification before I walked around with that god-awful name… Lav, what are you doing?"

"I'm _working_," Lavender replied crossly. She had already uttered a dodgy-sounding darkening spell on Hermione's hair. Now she studied the new Head Girl critically before pointing her wand straight at Hermione's face and muttering, "Cabria solus." Involuntarily whimpering, Hermione watched, feeling sick, as the top of her originally creamy coloured hands visibly turned several shades darker, and she could only assume that the rest of her body had followed suit.

Ron chuckled again as the Sorting Hat's thunderous bellow of "HUFFLEPUFF!" clearly reached even the side room. "Ooooo, _and_ he's in Hufflepuff, too, poor chap…"

Lavender stepped back, clasping her hands together in front of her as she gravely examined her masterpiece. Hermione, on the other hand, waited apprehensively, holding her breath. _Sweet Merlin, **what** was I **thinking** letting Lavender do magic on me?_ her mind screamed in absolute dismay, waiting for Harry or Ron or Ginny or Draco to take one look at her and run in the opposite direction.

Her friend finally grinned in approval, however, and nodded cheerfully, gestures which Hermione didn't exactly find reassuring. "All right, Hermy, you're ready!" she proclaimed with a little clap of her hands, looking beyond pleased with herself.

As soon as the words crossed Lavender's lips, Draco pointedly caught the now-tanned brunette's gaze, theatrically widened his eyes, and covered his face with a hand. With his other, he reached out and grabbed Harry's arm, yanking the dark-haired boy away from Ginny and to his side. "Evans, save me from _the thing!" _he wailed.

Hermione gave him a withering look. "Oh, why don't you go hide yourself in a corner, _ferret," _she snapped waspishly, vehemently lifting one now dark chocolate curl off her shoulder and holding it in front of her face to examine it.

"Hermione, ignore the prat. You look really, really nice," Ginny said sincerely, coming up beside Harry and examining Hermione herself. "I'm serious, you do. You could definitely pass as Egyptian, and you look _beautiful," _she insisted warmly when Hermione dropped the curl back to her shoulder and looked over at her with a very doubtful expression.

"Gin's right, Mione," Harry said with a critical nod. "You look brilliant. Not that you didn't before, but… Probably good enough to catch even Voldemort's eye, _if_ he had a heart," he joked dryly. He shook his arm out of Draco's grip and looked at him sternly. "Du Lac, tell Hermione that she looks really nice."

Slowly, Draco lowered his hand from his face and peered at her warily. "You look… better," he relented grudgingly.

"Bloody hell, I see a younger McGonagall!" Ron abruptly hissed in a both disturbed and gleeful-sounding voice. He leapt back into the alcove and waved them toward the cracked-open door. "Come on, you lot… Come look at this!"

Shooting one last dirty look in Draco's direction, Hermione curiously edged up to the door, taking the towering redhead's place and glancing through the narrow slit between the edge of the door and the wall. The first thing she saw was light, lots of it, followed by big black blobs of masses of students in school robes. Almost as quickly, the tantalizing, mouth-watering scent of the welcome feast wafted through the air, and her stomach rumbled loudly at the scrumptious thought of dinner after understandably missing lunch.

As her eyes adjusted, she could make out specific students individually. Her eyes scanned the Gryffindor table, quickly landing on a slender, pony-tailed brunette who looked to be in her fourth or fifth year. The girl's face was startlingly similar the McGonagall she knew, except that this McGonagall, who a quill stuck through the back of her ponytail, her hair holding the writing utensil firmly in place, was whispering something in the ear of the girl beside her, and she was _smiling_.

_Amazing!_

Even so, seeing a familiar face, even a younger one, eased a bit of the apprehensive tension that had begun to build inside Hermione. A hand lightly shifting some of her cascade of tamed tresses back from around her face, however, caused her to halt her analysis of her future Head of House. She pulled her nose back into the dark alcove, glanced over her shoulder, and met Harry's weathered but friendly face.

"Care to play I spy Lord Voldemort?" he asked dryly, leaning his head down close beside hers so he could see through the crack as well. That was the other thing Hermione loved about Ginny. Ginny was the only girlfriend Harry had ever had who understood that the love between Hermione and Harry, unbreakable and powerful as it was, was purely platonic. Always had been, and always would be. They had been through too much together for it to be anything more

His warm breath puffed gently against her neck, and she briefly closed her eyes at the comforting sensation. Reopening them, she momentarily watched his emerald eyes carefully observe the room before she responded with a resigned sigh and a defeated wave of her hands. "Why not?"

Turning her attention back to the Great Hall, Hermione immediately spied the Slytherin table. Her eyes ran down it in systematic motion as she looked for the live version of the yearbook picture with which she had so familiarized herself during the past week…

"Mione," Harry suddenly said in a low voice. "I want you to listen to me. This is going to be mostly you, you know. You're going to be the one close to him, more than anyone else, probably." He sighed and distractedly ran a hand through his hair. "Merlin, Mione, I don't like this. I mean, it'd be one thing if you were staying with one of us, but you're going to share an entire common room with _just him!_ D'you realize what he could do to you in there?"

A small vein of panic tricked into Hermione's mind, and she quickly shoved it away as best as she could. It wasn't that she hadn't thought about any of those things - Oh, no, they had most definitely crossed her mind - but from the way she saw it, at that moment in time, they didn't exactly have many more better options. No, she would do what she had to do like she had resolved in 1998, and she would just have to deal with the results.

Deserting her search for Lord Voldemort, she faced Harry fully. Reaching up, she fondly rested a hand on his cheek, her eyes sparkling warmly. "Harry, Harry, Harry," she whispered in a slight tease. "Don't _worry_ about me; I'm a big girl!" As the attraction of their friendship magnetically drew them closer together, Hermione smiled reassuringly at the lofty Boy-Who-Lived. "I can handle this. You, of all people, should know that. _I can handle it,"_ she repeated in a fierce whisper at the torn expression on his face.

Harry smiled half-heartedly but sighed, long tufts of jet black hair falling messily into his concerned face and sticking out from his head in random places. "I know you can handle most everything, I know you can," he murmured so the others couldn't hear. "But I know Voldemort, too, and you've never met him face to face... when there's just you, and just him, and nothing else in between but your wands…"

His eyes darkened behind his glasses. Hermione didn't doubt that he was recalling his numerous crossings with the Dark Lord, more crossings than any one man should have to face in a lifetime, but he eventually tilted his head down at the petite brunette, resolutely refocusing on her face.

"Mione, you need to hear it, and better you hear it from me now than from me in the Hospital Wing," he muttered. "Voldemort's dangerous; he's manipulative; he's everything you _don't_ want to be around day in and day out, and Mione, I don't care _how_ sympathetic Dumbledore put his early years, he's already voluntarily killed _two people_ — And you know I worry," he added in a lighter tone as Dippet's undeniably strident voice rang out, reaching even the shadowy crevasses in the damp stone walls of the six's small alcove.

"And we move on to our seventh year transfer students!"

"Yeah, Harry, you do," Hermione said quietly. _Do you ever._ "But… I appreciate it. It's always nice to know that someone cares." She smiled at him feebly, but her composure wavered as the sharp voice of the newly introduced Professor McDewitt barked out, "Dumbledore Nefertari, Hermione?"

"_Yeah_, Mione," Ginny rooted as Harry pecked Hermione lightly on the top of her head and turned her around toward the half-open doorway. "That's you," he said with an encouraging push.

"Luck, Nefertari," Draco drawled, sending Hermione a wink and a grin before she could make her way out into the great beyond. His typical overconfidence, especially after his cute little comment about her appearance, was all it took for Hermione's competitive buoyancy to rush back.

"_Luck_?" Hermione echoed, tossing her shining curls over her shoulders and straightening her back. She smiled at Draco teasingly, taking a step backward into the Great Hall. "I don't need luck, ferret, remember?" She returned an exaggerated, flirty wink at the smirking blonde and whispered conspiratorially, "I'm born with it."

Draco's mouth actually fell open at Hermione's uncharacteristic cattiness. "Hey!"

And Hermione was left strolling out to the Sorting Hat - still ancient, ripped, and placed on a stool in the front of the Great Hall - amid the hushed whispers of gossiping students following her emergence from the alcove, and an annoyed male voice calling from somewhere outside the Hall, "_Hey_! She stole my line!"


	9. Have You Ever Met a Dark Lord

"_Luck?" Hermione echoed, tossing her shining curls over her shoulders and straightening her back. She smiled at Draco teasingly, taking a step backward into the Great Hall. "I don't need any luck, ferret, remember?" She returned an exaggerated, flirty wink at the smirking blond and whispered conspiratorially, "I'm born with it."_

_Draco's mouth actually fell open at Hermione's uncharacteristic cattiness. "Hey!"_

_And Hermione was left strolling out to the Sorting Hat - still ancient, ripped, and placed on a stool in the front of the Great Hall - amid the hushed whispers of gossiping students following her emergence from the alcove, and an annoyed male voice calling from somewhere outside the Hall, "Hey! She stole my line!"_

**Chapter 9: Mr. I-Don't-Do-Formalities**

Monday, September 29, 1944

9:02 P.M.

Hermione arrived at the Head's common room before Voldemort did.

Dippet had told her the password was, ironically enough, '_Time_.' When Hermione had come upon the customary Head Boy and Girl dorm entrance, she had suffered through three duelling challenges before Sir Cadogan finally relented and let her inside. Considering that, this year, she had gotten the reject knight as a portrait hole protector versus the entirely agreeable 'Ten Lords A-Leaping' painting she and Draco had had the year before, Hermione concluded that her luck just might be running out.

Hopefully, she'd have just enough left for whatever more went down that night.

She sighed and padded across the wooden floor, automatically making her way toward her favourite leather sofa, tucked away in front of the crackling fireplace. Massaging her temples, she sank down into its soft, cool material, her mind still whirling from the day's madcap events: From getting imploded to a speck and careering fifty years backward in time, to being re-crowned Head Girl of Hogwarts, to actually seeing the back, but not more, of the dark head of the twentieth century's most feared Dark Lord at the Slytherin table during the Welcome Feast.

A sudden chill rushed down her spine, and Hermione forced herself to study the differences between the Head dorm that she remembered and this current one.

Quite honestly, not much had changed, she realized as her eyes skimmed over the gaping, much-utilized fireplace, the four-piece leather den set (a divan, a plump, spacious armchair, a footrest, and the three-person sofa on which was lounging), a small, transparent coffee table behind her sofa but between the divan and the armchair, the small, square worktable in the far corner of the room, and, finally, the same ceiling-high west window, the stark outside darkness contrasting sharply with the dim light thrown off by the crackling fire.

Grinning contentedly, she glanced down and noticed the crisp but alien blue and bronze gleam of the scarf lying on the seat beside her. The colours were so completely opposite the red and gold to which she had grown accustomed like they were a second skin, but even so…

Hermione knew that Ravenclaw would align perfectly with her studious side, and, judging by the cheers which had greeted her arrival at the table, it seemed that she would align quite well with the Ravenclaws as well.

To no one's surprise, Draco had been sorted back into Slytherin. Harry, too, had joined Draco in the House of Snakes, which Hermione had also almost fully expected, and Ginny…

Well, Ginny's placement had been a bit of a shocker, but now, as Hermione reflected on the qualities of her friend, she could understand the Sorting Hat's reasoning. Ginny had the crucial ability to invent quips with the best of them, she could be sly, cunning, and sarcastic if she wanted to be, and she had seen her share of dark times…

After Ginny had been sorted into Slytherin, Lavender later claimed that she had had to stupefy Ron to keep him from screaming like a madman and leaping out into the Great Hall to manually rip the Sorting Hat to shreds. Ron himself had been willingly placed into Gryffindor, and Lavender had gleefully skipped to the Hufflepuff table the moment her House had been announced. After the temperamental redhead had accepted that his sister and best friend were now in the house he most detested - or at least attempted to – he had seemed to be fairly content with the situation.

Which left Hermione with nothing more to consider save her own plan for the rest of the school year – a plan that had taken a very abrupt detour after she had been appointed Head Girl, with Lord Voldemort as Head Boy.

The way she saw it, she now had two options. She would have to select one of them within the next ten minutes, by which time Voldemort should have finished showing the Slytherin first years the way to their dungeon. When the future Dark Lord walked through the portrait hole, Hermione could easily act the way she _wanted_ to act, could easily give Lord Voldemort everything he was worth…

_Or_ she could be the nicest person in the world, even if the very thought of doing so made her nauseous.

Thoughtfully, Hermione twirled a lock of unfamiliar dark hair around her finger, staring absently into the dancing, crackling orange and white flames.

Yes, how this entire year was going to go would probably come down to her actions that very night. First impressions were everything; she knew that much. If she decided to wage war on Voldemort from Day One, then Ron in Gryffindor, Lavender in Hufflepuff, Draco, Ginny, and Harry in Slytherin, plus any others they could get on their side, would gladly follow suit. And, after all that the evil known as Voldemort had done to the world, Hermione could honestly say that she thought he deserved _whatever_ they would give him…

_But he hasn't done it yet,_ that same, little voice of yogic virtue that had calmed her in the Great Hall earlier floated in the corner of her mind. _He's still young. Still not completely Lord Voldemort._

_He **opened** the Chamber of Secrets at the end of his fifth year, for crying out loud!_ the other, more rational (or, at least it seemed that way to Hermione) part of her mind screamed_. If that's not incriminating, then what is? He killed his own father when he was thirteen years old! He was **born** to kill!_

**No one is born evil, Ms. Nefertari.**

Dumbledore's cryptic parting words rang suddenly in her head as if the man was sitting beside her, confusing her even more. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, completely torn about what to do next. She had never been in this sort of situation before – what she expected would be a long-term mental warfare against a dangerous man in an unfamiliar world. She alone would be _sharing a common room with the future Dark Lord, _for Merlin's sake!

Never before that moment had Hermione felt so absolutely and totally alone.

Maybe, just maybe, if she thought hard enough, she would be able to hear Draco in the leather armchair behind her, muttering dark nothings under his breath about Hagrid and the mad new magical creature he had unveiled, would be able to smell the tantalizing scent of the pumpkin bread that Harry and Ron had smuggled into the Head's Common for a midnight party, would be able feel the cool butterbeer bubbles dancing lightly over her tongue and down her throat as Lavender and Ginny gossiped of the latest Quidditch match mishap in the background…

_SCREEEEEEECH!_

Abruptly, a soft squeak and subsequent scraping open of the portrait hole sent a shot of terror through Hermione's heart. Seconds later, brisk, agile footsteps somewhere behind her alerted her that the devil himself had just strode coolly into the common room. _Oh God. _Her breath caught in her throat, heart suddenly thudding so hard it was nearly bursting from her chest. _This is it. _She was currently the only other person in a room with the man who had killed her parents, her friends, so, so many people -

_You stop it this instant, Hermione Granger! You'll never get anywhere with him if you work yourself into an absolute terror!_

The portrait hole audibly slammed again - closing behind him, she assumed - and Hermione was cruelly reminded that, no matter how constant the Head common room's appearance had remained, she was no longer in the safe place she had once called "home." No, that place had been lost to her forever.

"Hell" would probably be a more apt term at the moment.

Hermione hastily slid down into the couch, and she couldn't help but hear Harry's words before the Sorting playing over and over on a closed circuit in her mind like a broken record: _Voldemort's **dangerous**, he's **manipulative**, he's **everything** you **don't** want to be around day in and day out…_

Shielded behind the sofa and thankful for its inconspicuous position facing away from the entrance to the common, she warily poked her head up over the sofa's tall leather back so that only the curly top of her head to her suspicious, narrowed eyes appeared. As surreptitiously and critically as she could, she carefully scrutinized the recently-arrived seventeen-year-old Lord Voldemort.

Right off the bat, Hermione noticed that Voldemort was quite good-looking for his age. She didn't know why this fact surprised her, because she had seen the old pictures of him, but it hadn't struck her then like it did now. In the person, he had a stiff grace about him, about his every move, that was at the same time decidedly dangerous and undeniably charismatic.

She sighed disgustedly. At least she was looking at this completely objectively; she'd have to be a loony to actually consider the killer of thousands attractive. Everything about his appearance, though, seemed meticulously in place, from his thick, slightly wavy, neatly combed and right-parted dark hair, down to the tidy tie and press of his uniform. Even his steps were vigorous and purposeful, and he calmly surveyed the common room without as much as a glance in the direction of Hermione's couch.

Her stomach jumped to her throat, and she caught her breath, her brow inadvertently beginning to sweat. This really was it. There was no turning back. She would have to decide, and she would have to decide right now.

Reminding herself to breathe, the brunette sucked in a tiny, relieved gasp of air, glad that this book was still in her section of the library for the time being, so to speak. She followed his intelligent, astute gaze as he quickly located the Head Boy's room and the staircase leading up to it. Still not noticing Hermione, he started toward it… passed her tan leather sofa completely…

No, the choice was hers now: How she wanted this game to play out; how she wanted to live this past life…

Hermione's mind had not slowed, nor had it cleared, but a thousand thoughts were whizzing through it like racing brooms, yanking her in totally different directions, all calling to her like sirens, each side equally valid:

Ginny's hard voice, full of hatred, muttering darkly, _We'll make him pay before he even knows what hit him…_

Dumbledore's aurora of calmness and complex wisdom, lecturing serenely, _No one is born evil, Ms. Nefertari…_

And Hermione made her choice, as stupid and rash as it may have been. Swallowing back a wave of queasiness, she jumped to her feet before she reneged on her decision. "Hey!" she called after the disappearing Dark Lord, trying to sound friendly.

One foot already up on the first step up to his dorm, Voldemort stopped and coolly pivoted to the left until he faced her, his calculating grey eyes scrutinizing her carefully. Hermione again forced herself to breathe. She felt like she was under a mircroscan, but she only drew her back straighter, lifted her chin, and met his gaze. No, she would _not_ let him make her squirm.

_It's 1944, Hermione. He is still an ordinary teenager — for the most part — and you can't treat him like an enemy without raising suspicion until he gives you reason. And then, by all means, you can become his own, personal roommate from hell. By all means._

_This is your one chance, Voldy…_

Hermione had to give the Dark Lord kudos, though. Although surprise had momentarily flashed in his eyes when she had first greeted him, it seemed to be more from her being the one to make the first approach rather than from her appearing out of nowhere — or from behind a couch.

So he wasn't easily ruffled. She would see about that.

"Hey," Hermione repeated. She moved around to the front of the couch, never breaking his gaze, and threaded her way between the coffee table and the divan with all the confidence and poise of one who knew the Head common room like the back of her hand… which she did, of course. "You must be the Head Boy."

Voldemort's face showed no sign of emotion as he watched her approach and pause a few feet away from him. After a second, he evenly returned in a medium-but-not-especially-deep, slightly Irish-lilted voice, "Given that only the Heads and the professors know the password to the _Head_ common room, it would appear that way, wouldn't it?"

_Ooo, **acidic** sense of humour. Cynicism is the first symptom of the Dark Side, honey._

Hermione stepped back and studied his well-etched, decidedly handsome but almost too-thin face. Oddly, it was the sort of pale countenance Harry always returned to school with after spending an entire, battering summer with the Dursleys. She tried to decide if his comment was meant to be derisive or was just normal Lord-Voldemort-speak, but couldn't get anything from his expression... or lack thereof.

"I'm Hermione," she finally said, hoping the sour, bitter taste in her mouth didn't emerge in her voice. She forced to her face what she hoped came out as a friendly smile. "Hermione Nefertari," she added when he didn't immediately respond, opting to drop the 'Dumbledore' for simplicity's sake.

"I know," Voldemort said idly, calmly, while examining her indifferently, it seemed. His voice was surprisingly quiet but authoritative — the kind that made listeners lean in so as not to miss a single word. "You're the transfer in Ravenclaw. Dippet and McDewitt announced your name at dinner. Twice. Once for the Sorting and once for recognizing your position as Head Girl."

_Well, you don't miss much, do you?_

Of course, she hadn't really expected him to be the type to let anything slip by. She waited for some other witty, Captain Obvious line, but none came. _Well,_ she thought sardonically, _Dumbledore certainly wasn't exaggerating when he told us about Voldemort's complete lack of life and sensation._

Fighting to keep the smile on her face from turning into a scowl of loathing, Hermione quickly went in for another attempt at civility. "All right, since I'm new here, this is the part where you say, 'Hi, I'm blank, I'm in blank house. Nice to meet you."

Voldemort blatantly regarded Hermione momentarily, one hand casually in his pocket, the other nonchalantly playing with his wand. She waited both expectantly and uneasily, his stormy gaze a bit unnerving, to say the least. After a moment, she crossed her arms in front of her for the sole purpose of moving, wondering how far she had and could push him.

Suddenly, he held out his right hand as if extending it to shake hers. She nearly jumped back from the unexpectedness of it. "Hi, I'm Tom Riddle, I'm in Slytherin. Nice to meet you," he said with a slight twist of his voice that could have been considered genial were it not the future Dark Lord she was dealing with –

_Wait… 'Tom Riddle?'_

Oh, that was right. She couldn't very well expect him to go around and call himself Voldemort to just _anyone_ yet.

"I suppose I could have done without the direct repetition of my words," Hermione grumbled, "but pleasure, I'm sure." She gingerly stared at his hand, not sure if she should shake it, or if she even _wanted_ to, for that matter.

"One thing you should know, Nefertari," Tom Riddle continued shortly, still loosely extending his hand as if her abrupt hesitation hadn't affected him, his eyes still locked on her face, "is that I don't do formalities."

"You don't, don't you?" she countered dryly, arching one thin, dark eyebrow at him. Her right hand had strangely begun to tingle, and on top of it all, his piercing stare was becoming more than slightly disturbing. "And why ever not, may I ask?"

"There's no point in it," he stated matter-of-factly, shrugging offhandedly. "I mean, how can you be so sure it's a pleasure to meet me when you don't even know me?"

"It's called being polite," Hermione retorted, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from her voice. Almost exasperatedly, she uncrossed her arms and reached out to take his yet extended handshake, deciding that to leave him hanging might not be the best diplomatic move on her part-

And, like a booming, resounding thunderclap, she was struck— no, more like _bowled over _—with the most brilliant idea; an idea that had the potential to always give her the advantage, always have some sort of edge over Lord Voldemort. And if what everyone had said about him was indeed true, Hermione would need every edge she could get.

Without thinking properly on it, without considering the logicalness of it for more than a split second, Hermione took her only chance, and Hermione acted.

The moment her hand fully connected with Tom Riddle's, the brunette gasped audibly, rolling her eyes back in her head enough to complete the effect before closing them firmly and letting every muscle in her body go utterly limp. Instantly, her legs buckled beneath her, the rest of her body quickly following suit.

Riddle's grip on her hand had been so strong, Hermione nearly dragged him down with her when she collapsed, praying to herself that he would at least be man enough to do something to prevent her head from smashing in on the wood floor. She heard him swear under his breath and simultaneously, thankfully, felt her right arm go taunt, his grasp stopping her body inches from hitting the ground.

_And thank Merlin for that._

As Riddle slowly lowered her the rest of the way down, Hermione lifelessly sprawled out on the floorboards. She mentally counted to five before mumbling, "_Ermmm_…"She made a rather large show of fluttering open her eyes... and found herself staring up into the startled face of Tom Riddle. "Did I…" Delicately, she reached up and massaged the side of her head. "Did I just pass out?"

Riddle's tempestuous grey eyes narrowed, and he answered her question with a sharp question of his own. "Does this sort of thing happen to you often?"

"Erm…Yes… No - Well, randomly." Hermione gradually pushed herself up into a sitting position and gingerly rubbed the back of her head, inadvertently leaving her curls ruffled in all directions. "Sometimes, when I touch people… I see things." Shaking her head vigorously, as if that would help her fully regain consciousness, she noted with a considerable amount of satisfaction the rapid flash of alarm that crossed his features.

"It's a bit odd, actually," she continued a bit more boldly after seeing him take the bait. "Normally, I don't completely pass out. That only happens when I get really… _strong_… images," she grunted as she climbed to her feet, resting a hand on the armrest of the divan for stability, rolling her neck, and stretching herself out. "It's always a delightful little wake up for me, though. Hitting the floor, I mean."

As quickly as the apprehension came to Riddle's face, it vanished expertly, leaving him with an air of haughty apathy. "And what did you see, when you touched me?" he asked, leaning his shoulder against the stairway banister and crossing his arms, his voice contemptuously blasé, completely unconcerned.

_Yeah, I never used to be a big believer in Divination, either. Don't worry, that'll change, that'll **allllll** change._

Hermione almost wished she had a witness present for her moment of glory. _Professor Trelawney, if only you were here!_

Mentally chortling gleefully as she innocently blinked up at the next Dark Lord, she went in for the kill.

"What's a Voldemort?"

**A/N:** In case some of you didn't follow what just happened back there, our friend Mione had a bit of a "psychic vision" episode. Just to clarify.

Read, review, comment, anything! I _love_ to hear from you!


	10. Have You Ever Been Egyptian

_Hermione almost wished she had a witness present for her moment of glory. **Professor Trelawney, if only you were here!**_

_Mentally chortling gleefully, she went in for the kill._

"_What's a Voldemort?"_

**Chapter 10: One For the Scrapbooks**

Tuesday, September 30, 1944

8:11 P.M.

"You said _what_?" Draco demanded, cupping a hand around his right ear and, from his position beside Hermione on an ornately adorned bronze and royal blue couch, leaned in toward the direction of Hermione's mouth.

"You heard me!" She laughed and pushed him away, lounging back on the Ravenclaw sofa in the Room of Requirements. It had redecorated itself as the ultimate Hogwarts common room, and three couches, each representing a different house or houses, created a semi-perimeter around the crackling fireplace. "Now he thinks I'm a Seer or something of the sort. Ooo, did that shake him up, let me tell you."

"Good Merlin, Hermy, you kill me," Lavender exclaimed, bouncing from her seat curled up alongside Ron on the half red and gold Gryffindor and half yellow and black Hufflepuff sofa. She plopped down dangerously close to the fireplace, whipped out a marshmallow from her fuchsia book bag, and jammed it on the tip of her wand, sticking the marshmallow into the dancing flames without an ounce of hesitation. "Rock _on_, lassie!"

"He really fell for it?" Harry asked. At her tale, his face had lit up like a Christmas tree in spite of himself, his arm resting across Ginny's stomach as she lay, fully stretched out, along the silver and forest green Slytherin sofa. The back of Ginny's head rested in Harry's lap, her deep auburn hair contrasting sharply with the black of his uniform robes.

Hermione absently nodded at her best friend, but her real focus was on Lavender as the girl leaned closer to the hearth, examining the doneness of her browning marshmallow. Hermione watched in a kind of horrified fascination as Lavender's mane of sleek blond-streaked hair drifted closer and closer to the red-hot flames...

Hastily, she muttered a silent prayer and a fire-dousing charm under her breath, but—just in time, it seemed— Lavender pulled back, delicately blowing on the marshmallow. "Lav," Hermione began slowly, releasing a breath of absolute relief, _"Please_ never try to roast a marshmallow on your wand _or_ use an American and Scottish accent in the same sentence. Ever again."

Lavender simply grinned in reply, apparently not realizing or caring how close she had been to becoming toasted herself, and gave Hermione a thumbs-up sign, simultaneously taking a big bite into the gooey white fluff.

The Head Girl sighed in exasperation, wondering why she even tried, and turned her attention back to Harry. "Sorry, Harry; yes, he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker." She smiled to herself, momentarily reliving the magnificence of the night before. "You should have seen his face when I asked him what a Voldemort was. I swear I needed a camera."

"What a Voldemort was, that is going in the scrapbook!" Ron exclaimed, digging a red coloured toffee out of his pocket and popping it into his mouth. He chortled to himself and shook his head, muttering, "What a Voldemort was; honestly, that girl's brilliant, she is…"

"So, come on." Ginny splayed her hands out above her head. "Don't leave us in suspense! What'd he say?"

Hermione hid a smirk as Riddle's completely expressionless face popped into her mind, picturing him as he'd been when he given her his comeback. "He said it was the name of his pet snake that died this summer… and with whom he was _extremely_ attached."

_Pppst!_

As soon as the words left her mouth, Ron spit the toffee clear across the void between the House sofas, where it landed cleanly in the middle of the fireplace. Lavender cackled, Ginny held back a laugh, and Hermione's eyebrows flew up in surprised amusement as she watched it rapidly melt and disappear.

Ron glared at all three girls and started to cough loudly. At this, Hermione actually prolonged her smirk, feeling like she had somehow turned into Draco. "Yeah, Ron, I almost lost it right in front of him exactly like that, _exactly_… minus the toffee, of course," she added with a laugh. She frowned. "Actually, I was rather terrified that I was going to burst out laughing right in his face."

"What'd you say, what'd you say?" Lavender chanted, finishing her marshmallow and licking her fingers clean in the most ladylike manner Hermione had ever seen… given the fact that Lavender had just roasted a marshmallow on the end of her wand in the Room of Requirements and had then proceeded to eat the sticky mess.

The brunette smiled slightly. "I said, 'Oh, that's terrible! I'm _so_ sorry for your loss!' "

Ron actually cracked up, Harry smiled in that serious yet teasing way of his, Draco smirked, and Lavender again began to cackle evilly. Hermione jabbed an accusing but good-natured finger at the mischievous Hufflepuff. "Lav, how did you _not_ end up in Slytherin?"

Lavender sobered up instantly and tapped her skull in complete seriousness. "It's all up here, Hermione. The goodies."

_Right..._

"Oh, Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed suddenly, leaving Ron to snort and cover his mouth at Lavender's previous response. She snapped her fingers in recollection. "I meant to tell you sooner: I got asked where we come from and why we transferred here about _twenty_ times in the course of, what has it been, twenty-five hours? My most popular response was: We got expelled from the Academy of the Sun for practicing excessive Dark Magic. The little snakes loved that one."

"Oh, I said that we had been instrumental in destroying Grindewald's Egyptian forces, and now we had come over here to finish the job," Harry said. He frowned thoughtfully, glanced down at his girlfriend, and gently poked the tip of her pixie nose in mock annoyance. "Gin, those two might clash."

"Yes, the Slytherins _did_ seem a bit confused at the breakfast table this morning," Draco mused sardonically. He glanced sidelong at Hermione, smirked temptingly, and invitingly held out his arm nearest her.

Hermione rolled her eyes but scooted across the five or so inches between them nonetheless. She snuggled into his side and closed her eyes as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and absently began to drum his fingers on her side. At _least_, she thought, at least they had managed to survive their first day of class with a minimal number of abnormal occurrences. Minimal. "And remember, everyone, the more outrageous, the better," she mumbled sleepily.

"You want an example of outrageous?" Ron asked, smiling smugly. "Here's one: I said that we had been privately tutored on a tropical island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean our entire lives and have just been exposed to civilization as the world knows it."

Ginny rolled her eyes at her brother. "Oh, that one was _creative_, Ron. Now they're going to think we're all jungle freaks."

Ron wrinkled up his nose and shot Ginny a dirty look.

Not to be outdone by her on-again/off-again love, Lavender said imperiously, "Well, _I_ said that Draco is descended from French magical royalty of the same name, Ron can turn his hair green and make his ears pointed on command, Harry and Ginny are members of an ancient and mysterious Old Magick cult that holds a rendezvous inside the Great Pyramid under the light of every full moon, and Hermione, beside her uncannily Seerish abilities, comes from the most powerful wizarding family in the history of magic."

_Leave it to Lav._ It sounded like a sitcom. Draco tilted his head down, found Hermione's amused gaze, and winked. "I kind of like that one, Nef, don't you?"

The light atmosphere in the Room of Requirements was exactly what Hermione needed after the always stressful first day of classes, not to mention first day of classes in a different time period. In any case, she was relieved she had survived last night's first encounter and one of her two subsequent classes (ironically, Defence Against the Dark Arts) with the young Lord Voldemort.

Her happiness was short lived when she remembered where she would eventually end up that night - sharing a common room with him, among other things - but she smiled mischievously. "Yeah, it does sound like something I could get used to." She stretched her leg out away from the sofa, the very tip of her shoe managing to nudge Ron's knee. "How about it, Ronald, going to go all green and pointy on us?"

Ron repeated the face he had just made at his sister, his expression so sour that Hermione started to laugh again… but her amusement faded when Harry suddenly said, "Speaking of Slytherins and breakfast tables this morning; that reminds me." His piercing green gaze swept across the void between sofas to catch Draco's eyes. "Did you see Tom Riddle _anywhere_ since the Welcome Feast last night and Defence Against the Dark Arts?"

"Never came in the Slytherin common," Draco said slowly, thinking back and shaking his head. "Nope, wasn't at breakfast, either. Or, at least, _I_ didn't see him there. West-lette, any imput?"

Ginny shook her head. Heaving a huge yawn, she burrowed further into Harry's lap, murmuring sleepily, "If the high and mighty Draco du Lac didn't even manage to catch of tiny _glimpse_ of the most recognizable person in this time period beside Uncle Al, what makes him think that the lowly Ginevra West did any better?"

Hermione felt rather than saw Harry's gaze land on her. "Mione, you haven't seen him, have you?"

Going over the past day's events, she realized that Harry was eerily correct. "No, not even this morning. You know how early I get up, and I hung around the common room for a bit reading Hogwarts, A His-" Quickly, she stopped herself before Ron's probable groan could arrive. "Well, I was reading, and I didn't see him come down."

Harry tilted his head backward, studying the muted grey Room of Requirements ceiling. She noticed that he had begun to massage Ginny's arm the way he always did when he was feeling uncomfortable and needed to be reminded that someone else was there. "I don't like this," he finally muttered. "We have to at least keep better tabs on him than this."

"But we can't come off like we're following him. He would realize something was up," Hermione argued, and Harry's head silently levelled off so he could see her more clearly. After a moment, she added reluctantly, "I'll do it."

She felt sick as the cold, hard awareness of what she, and no one else, would have to do heavily sunk in. "My going and looking for him, keeping tabs on him if I have to," she explained as Harry's eyes narrowed in question. "It would never be suspicious, since we're the two Heads, and I can always make up some reason why I need hi — _Sweet Merlin!" _she gasped.

For a split second, Harry looked afraid that the Dark Lord had actually shown up, but he relaxed again when Hermione jolted forward and glanced at the hands of the clock on the wall behind Ron. "I have to run; I've got a Head meeting with Dippet in less than seven!" she yelped in dismay. _Which really, really doesn't give me much time..._

"Dippet, mah man!" Ron hooted as she uncurled herself from Draco, leapt to her feet, and briskly smoothed down her uniform. "Merlin, Mione, try to avoid screeching like you've just discovered that Voldemort himself was hiding in here," the redhead scolded. He paused, and the next time he spoke, his voice emerged in a much darker growl. "Save that in case it really does happen."

"Will _he_ be there?" Ginny piped in, a flint-edged, telltale tone slipping dangerously into her voice.

Hermione felt chills sweep down her spine at the idea of Ron's last comment, and she bent down, reaching over Draco's lazily sprawled leg and snatching up her dusty rose book bag. She had no doubt who _'he'_ was, but she replied innocently, "Ginny, I don't have the slightest idea of who you mean—"

"Whoa, whoa, Nef!" Draco interrupted loudly. He caught her arm before she could straighten back up and yanked her back down to his level, his sky blue eyes as round as saucers. Baffled, Hermione stared at the blond as if he had suddenly sprouted wings and a tail. Still, she followed his gaze, her eyes landing on…

_Oh, right._ In the craziness of the day, she had almost forgotten it.

Yes, that would most definitely be enough to stop Draco du Lac in his tracks.

As Hermione had moved to pick up her bag, a bulky amulet had fallen out from under her shirt, and now it was currently dangling for all to see from a wide, bejewelled gold chain clasped around her neck. It was inset with a stone whose size was a good inch greater in circumference than that of a snitch. The exquisite piece seemed almost gaudy and out of place against Hermione's ordinary school uniform.

"Nefertari, I have seen my share of jewellery, and then I have seen _jewellery_." Draco gaped at the smooth, perfectly tear-drop shaped, vivid purplish-red tinged crimson ruby, even he unable to keep the awe from his voice. "That is massive, Nef, m_assive_. Do you know how expensive something that size is? Where did you get that?"

"Thank you, Jeweller Draco," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes. She pulled her arm from Draco's now-limp grasp and stood up. Turning to face the expectant, waiting eyes of the remainder of the audience, she carefully held up the glittering, multifaceted jewel by its equally impressive necklace like she was a showgirl presenting a product at a sale before auctioning it off.

Although the room was brightly lit, the ruby seemed to not reflect the light, but emit rays of its own with some sort of internal brilliance, and she stared at it with a fascination of her own for a moment, still getting used to it, before she explained, "This is the 'proof of my new bloodline' that Dumbledore was talking about right before he sent us back. It's called the Amulet of Eras."

Ron whistled, impressed. "Give me one of those for a day, and even _I'll_ pretend to be Egyptian."

Hermione held back a grin, but she quickly tucked the cold gem back under her shirt - for some reason she couldn't yet fathom, she was uncomfortable with idea of the priceless necklace being out in the open like it would have been had she not done so.

"He left a note as well," she added thoughtfully, peering down at her Oxford blouse. For the ruby's enormous size, it only bulged slightly underneath. "Said as soon as I put it on, it'd never come off until I died, or something cheery like that. I'm not an expert on gemstone mythology, so I really only know the basics of the significance of this. "

At Ginny's frown and inquisitive expression, Hermione subconsciously felt herself going into what Ron liked to call 'the professor mode.' "According to traditional mythology, the Sun transmits red. Therefore, rubies are 'ruled' by the Sun. If the Sun is the lord of a favourable house in the birth chart, like the house of the Egyptian Pharaoh — once believed to be the _living_ Sun god — a ruby will augment the wearer's supremacy. "

Unconsciously, she reached a hand to her neckline and began to tap the knot that was the jewel. "Legend has it that within this ruby lies the vast power of the Nefertari line. _All_ if it. It's like a… like a tiny storeroom, and you just have to figure out how to tap into it. It's thousands of years old, but it was lost near the beginning of the sixteenth century. I don't even want to know how Dumbledore managed to get his hands on it, and D, my face is up here, thank you—"

_**DONG**… **DONG**…_

_Bugger... Get **moving**, Mione!_

As the clock rudely struck the half hour, Hermione let out another yelp of alarm. "Merlin, I have to run!"

"Flying might be the only way to save you now, actually," Ron noted discouragingly, twisting around in his seat to glance at the clock again, while Lavender shook her head at Hermione as if she was supremely disappointed with the Head Girl's lack of professionalism.

Hermione ignored them both and scooped up her bag, pausing momentarily before the portrait of the four Hogwarts founders hanging over the fireplace and quickly scanning her reflection in the polished gold frame. Deciding that she looked relatively presentable, she expertly fluffed her shiny dark chocolate hair over her shoulders, mumbling to herself, "The first Head meeting… Oh, _not_ a good way to make a first impression, not a good way at all…"

"Maybe you should, you know, give Riddle a sympathy card for his snake," Harry mused, returning to the initial subject of the night, his amused green eyes following Hermione's rush out of the Room of Requirements. "I mean, seeing as he was so _attached_ to it, and you were _so _sorry for his loss…"

Irritatedly, Hermione froze halfway to the portrait hole. _How… How **dare** that boy make light of this situation! _She didn't see _him_ sharing a common room with the younger version of Lord Voldemort! Spinning around, she jabbed her wand at Harry mock-threateningly. "You... you drop dead!"

Harry's eyes lit up in amusement. "Yeah, while you're gone, I just might do that." Both he and Ginny began to chuckle, causing a rush of energy to shoot through Hermione. Ignoring her mental clock obnoxiously ticking down the passing minutes, she raced back to the Ravenclaw couch, snatched up a blue and bronze striped pillow, and vehemently chucked it in the couple's general direction.

Ginny ducked, but she wasn't fast enough. "Ow, Mione!" she yelped, the pillow bouncing off her head to the carpeted floor.

Harry, however, grinned impishly and pulled out his wand. _"Wingardium Leviosa," _he muttered, expertly flicking his wrist. The blue and white pillow rose menacingly into the air, and he glanced pointedly between the pillow and where Hermione stood, exposed, in the middle of the wooden floor between the sofas and the exit as if he was thinking, _Should I or shouldn't I? _

Hermione hadn't been best friends with Harry James Potter Evans for seven lengthy years for nothing. Instantly, she practically read his mind, and she disappointedly shook her head at him as a professor would a naughty child, taking a few uncertain, nervous steps backward. Only yesterday had Dumbledore's wand threatened her in the same way that she was certain Harry's was about to, and she didn't especially relish being caught at the pointed end of the wand again. "Come on, Harry, you know you deserved that!"

Apparently, Harry didn't seem to think so, and he aimed his wand directly at Hermione. _"Volo."_

The pillow quivered momentarily, then shot toward Hermione like a speeding bullet.

"_Harry!"_ Hermione shrieked and dove for cover behind the Ravenclaw couch, convinced that Armando Dippet, Tom Riddle, or both were going to kill her when she rolled into the Headmaster's office fifteen minutes late.


	11. Have You Ever Compromised

_The pillow quivered momentarily, then shot toward Hermione like a speeding bullet._

"_**Harry!"** Hermione shrieked and dove for cover behind the Ravenclaw couch, convinced that Armando Dippet, Tom Riddle, or both were going to kill her when she rolled into the Headmaster's office fifteen minutes late._

**Chapter 11: Ladies First**

Tuesday, September 30, 1944

8: 57 P.M.

"….the patrol schedules will be due in my office by next Friday night, _no_ excuses, and I advise you both to keep an open mind concerning the annual student activity over which you both have control," Dippet droned swiftly from his domineering perch on the imperial Headmaster throne on the other side of his scrupulously neat desk. "Oh, and do try to keep a close eye on things. Merlin forbid the events of a year and a half ago _ever_ repeat themselves."

Immediately, Hermione realized to which events Dippet was referring… but _they_ didn't know that.

"Of course, Headmaster," Tom Riddle said, his voice, as always, managing to find the ideal balance between courteous and disinterested. He was sitting casually in a stiff backed chair identical to Hermione's, his chin resting on his right hand in mock interest, she was sure, and his other arm hanging listlessly off the end of the left armrest.

Hermione had not seen him move one inch in the past seventeen minutes.

'_Of course?' 'Of **course,'** you little snake? **Liar!**_

"What events?" she asked shrewdly, levelling what she hoped was a captivating stare across Dippet's desk at the short but authoritative man. She still couldn't absorb how austere and empty the headmaster's office looked without Dumbledore's loads of trinkets and inventions littering the desks and tables. Austere and desolate and deserted. She resisted shaking her head in pity. Headmaster Dippet: what a truly boring man.

Dippet exaggeratedly ruffled through his various layers of robes and pulled out an ornately carved gold timepiece. Opening it, he impatiently glanced at its face, and then snapped it shut in businesslike fashion. "Had I the time, Ms. Nefertari, I would not hesitate to thoroughly answer your question. But, as I'm sure you realize, I do have a slightly important job, I do have a school to run, and I do have an appointment with Professor Dumbledore in five minutes that simply _can_not wait."

_What a self-absorbed little weasel!_

She watched in disbelief and resisted rolling her eyes as Dippet busily tapped his stack of parchment several times on desk until the edges were exactly aligned. _He probably leaves it there just so he can straighten it like that and look official during every meeting he has._ Suddenly, as if struck by an idea, the man's beady eyes left hers and shifted to her male Head counterpart. "Why don't you explain the situation to Ms. Nefertari on the way out, Mr. Riddle?"

As if by magic, the Headmaster was temporarily redeemed in her eyes, and Hermione pivoted in her seat, glancing expectantly at the boy beside her. Riddle's eyes, which, seconds before, had been distant and bored, now blinked back to the meeting with a start, narrowing and lowering treacherously on Dippet. She held back another smirk, her third in two days, fearing that Draco was beginning to rub off on her after all of the time she had spent with him.

_Yeah, why don't you explain it to me, Mr. Riddle?_

Riddle, however, didn't even acknowledge her inquisitive stare. In a bored yet respectful voice that Hermione knew _had_ to be an act, he said, "Sir, don't you feel it would be best that she heard it from someone like yoursel—"

"Oh, not at all, not at all, Mr. Riddle. You're Head Boy, I'm confident you'll do an admirable job," Dippet said hurriedly, cutting him off as he glanced back down at his papers.

Only Hermione saw the dark expression that danced across Riddle's face for a fleeting moment as he stared hard at the man in obvious dislike. But then Dippet stood, and the look instantly morphed into one of polite interest as the Headmaster waved his hands at the Head Boy and Girl like he was shooing cows out into a field. "Now, go on, go on, you two. Out! _Out!_ I have business to attend to!"

As she and Riddle shot out of the Headmaster's office, Hermione felt like a bouncer had just flung her out of a twenty-one-and-older club. The meeting had gone so quickly when compared to Dumbledore's long-winded hour to two hour conventions, she was left wondering how Dippet had even managed to cover everything so speedily.

_He must have forgotten something,_ she concluded.

With a pang and a wave of homesickness, Hermione's churning stomach told her that he forgotten to offer them a lemon drop.

_Them._

Abruptly, she remembered the person with whom she was standing alone and in the middle of a relatively deserted hallway. Her heart began to pump rapidly in her chest, and Harry's voice floated through her memory, '_You've never met him face to face... when there's just you, and just him, and nothing else in between but your wands…'_

_Merlin, Mione, get a hold of yourself! _She quickly scolded. _He's not going to murder you in front of the Headmaster's office!_

Flinging her dark brown curls over her shoulders, the refreshing aroma of freshly-washed hair mingling with the musty, damp scent of the dimly lit corridor, Hermione turned to the Heir of Slytherin and hoped she came off more confidently than she felt as she asked with a grin, "D'you ever get the feeling we're under-appreciated?"

Instead of responding like any normal person would do, perhaps even laughing and agreeing, Riddle stared down at her as if he couldn't quite figure her out, his almost slight form a good six inches taller than Hermione's lithe five foot seven figure. A moment later, he simply turned on his heel and strode briskly down the dimly lit hall toward the Head dorms, his robes dramatically billowing out behind him in a very Severus Snape-ish fashion.

_Whoa, that was supposed to be a joke._

For a good thirty seconds, the brunette gawked at his back, unable to believe that _anyone_ could be as blatantly rude as Tom Riddle was, yet charm the teachers as much as he seemed to be able to do.

_All right, so don't answer me. _

"Hey!" she called, jogging after him when he made a sharp left turn and disappeared up a flight of stairs. The amulet thudded heavily against her neck, and she held it in place with one hand until she caught up and quickly fell into step with him, wondering what exactly she was doing. "Is Dippet always like that?"

"Always like what?" he asked in a flat voice completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever, not slowing his rapid-fire pace to accommodate her in the least.

_Do you not even have a **drop** of curiosity in you?_ "Always like, 'I love myself, and as I am clearly _so_ much more significant than any of my _lowly_ students, let us wrap this up now before I _throw_ you from my office so I can continue to admire my important self?' " she asked in what Ron had come to label as her "Professor Trelawney voice" (simply because she only used it whenever she was mocking Divination).

For a moment, Hermione thought she saw a smirk pull at Riddle's lips, but when he apathetically glanced at her a second later, she was positive she had only imagined it. "Generally. Had you actually arrived _on time, _the meeting may have gone quite a bit more smoothly," he said acidly, his gaze darkly raking over her once more before he added silkily, "Wouldn't you agree?"

_Damn, I **knew** that was going to come back to haunt me!_

"Well, excuse me if, on _top_ of being smart enough to be appointed Head Girl, I also have a social life," she retorted scathingly. She was beginning to have serious doubts that she would ever be able to make any headway with the young version of the Dark Lord. Dumbledore had in no way been exaggerating when he had said that Riddle shook off humanity. And Hermione wasn't even trying to be a pest, she was just attempting to make friendly conversation.

She shook her head despairingly, noticing with an ounce of relief that they had reached the familiar painting of horse and knight. Riddle took a step in front of her, staring down the misfit knight as Sir Cadogan raised his sword and waved it in good-sportsmanlike fashion. _"Time. _And, no, neither of us are up for a joust today," he added witheringly as the knight opened his mouth to yell the usual challenge.

"Very well, good sir, very well! No need to be snappy about it," Sir Cadogan declared huffily. Somewhat insolently, the painting slid open with that annoying _CREEEEEEK!_ Riddle narrowed his eyes at the knight in reply and took a step toward the portrait hole, Hermione following behind -

"_Halt_, you scoundrel! HALT, I say!"

At the indignant cry, Riddle let out a barely audible, venomous hiss of air, back-pedalled, and crossed his arms, coolly setting his stormy grey eyes up against the disgruntled knight. "Do we have a problem?" he asked in a steamy voice that was too eerily calm to actually be calm, if that made any sense at all, his jaw clenched in such a fashion one would think he was up against an actual human being.

Sir Cadogan had raised his visor and was glaring furiously at the Head Boy. "Ungentlemanly conduct, I say! Unchivalrous! _Disgraceful_," he spat. He lifted one armoured hand and furiously shook it, wagging one shaking finger at Riddle. "Ladies first, you young rogue, ladies _always_ enter first!"

For the fourth time in forty-eight hours, Hermione smirked, and this time she didn't even try to hold it back. Without pausing to think, caught up in the aptness of the statement, she turned to Riddle, motioning toward the portrait hole with her head. "In that case, shall I go, or should you?"

As soon as the words crossed her lips, her mouth almost fell open in horror at her burst of rare but sheer audacious stupidity, and she was struck with the double urge to kick herself and clear of the area as soon as possible, and to burst out laughing. If anything, Riddle seemed completely caught off guard by her haphazard cheek as well, and this was probably what saved her, she eventually concluded.

Neither of them made any attempt to enter the portrait hole, silence building in the hall until the only sound that reached the brunette's ears was the soft whispering of the wind outside a few corridor windows.

The Head Boy, for his part, studied her intently for a good minute. Instinctively, Hermione lifted her chin, reluctantly standing under his laser scan… but, she relented, after her comment, she probably deserved to rough it out. She expected to see anger, hate, or at least annoyance in his face, but, strangely enough, she found… nothing.

Despite his utter lack of expression, she knew he had to be thinking _something_ for those sixty seconds, and she didn't especially feel like finding out what was running through his mind. It was easy to see why many of the younger students - and many of the older, even - crept around Tom Riddle with an air of nervousness, dislike... fear. Subconsciously, she felt her hand inch closer to her right pocket and her wand inside of it…

At last, she let out a sigh of relief when Riddle took a step backward, ridiculously far out of the way of the portrait hole. "Oh, no, I wouldn't _dream_ of obstructing pure-blooded royalty, Nefertari." In one flowing move, he held out his hands graciously, as if ushering her through the door, and bowed his head slightly. "Do go in. I _insist_."

This time, Hermione couldn't keep her mouth from completely dropping open, and frankly, she didn't care; her mind momentarily became paralysed in surprise before it took off in a dizzyingly fast whirl.

_Did the past version of Lord Voldemort just mock **purebloods?**_

Still mentally stunned, Hermione physically lifted her chin and snapped acerbically, "Well, how very considerate of you, then." Obediently, she climbed through the portrait hole, Tom Riddle's empty smirk and burning eyes following her as she passed him by.

Blinking in the bright glow of the crackling fireplace, she slowed her gait, slowly regaining enough control of her mentality to consider what had just happened. She had just insulted Tom Riddle. He, in turn, had insulted her, for Hermione was now sure that that was what Riddle's comment had been, an insult.

Things had not gotten off to a good start.

If she ever wanted to find out anything even _remotely_ useful about the young Lord Voldemort, Hermione realized that she was going to have to lay down some rules, and she was going to have to lay them now. She considered kicking off their next delightful little discussion with, _I suppose you don't **really** mean to act like you've always got a wand jammed up you arse_, but wisely opted against it.

"Listen, Riddle," she began carefully, "We're going to be working together a lot this year. Unless we want to be miserable, and unless we want to grate on each other's nerves 24/7, I suggest we find and agree upon some sort of communication that's going to work."

Riddle, who after following Hermione through the portrait hole had not stopped walking, was by now halfway up the staircase to his room. At the rate they had been going, Hermione honestly expected him to ignore her and continue on to his bedroom, but he surprised her and spun back around casually, three steps from the top. "Nefertari, I do believe that's the most intelligent thing you've said since we've met."

The scary thing was, he sounded like he honestly _did_ believe that.

Hermione sighed. Pulling her long, cool tresses off her shoulders, she frustratedly piled them on top of her head and collapsed onto the only piece of furniture that would allow her to sit and still see Riddle: the high-backed, fluffy leather armchair. "Right, I can already see an issue: I'm a talker and you're not. All right, for some absolutely mad reason, you just met me, yet you completely dislike me. Okay, no hard feelings, I can deal with that. But that still doesn't help us figure out how to tolerate each other nearly enough to make our school run smoothly!"

Riddle had not moved from his position on the third step from his bedroom door, but one hand was now raked through his dark, tidy hair. "All right Nefertari, it's this, or it's nothing," he snapped, sounding annoyed. "I don't give a damn if or when you decide to do whatever it is you like to do. However," he paused, accenting the word _however_, "I will ask that _our_ common room be used for official business only, and not for any kind of the social gatherings that you apparently seem to thrive on. Will _that_ satisfy you?"

Hermione mulled over his proposition, mildly surprised that Riddle had been the one to offer it. Although she couldn't exactly see how this agreement would directly benefit _her_, she was willing to make the deal with the devil if not to ensure that he didn't come into her bedroom at night and murder her from pure aggravation.

_**Stop** it, Mione, he hasn't **completely** become some deranged psychopath yet!_

Well, she figured, the Room of Requirements would suffice just as well for any midnight parties. "It _could_ work," she slowly relented.

"Good." The Heir of Slytherin spun around and stiffly stalked to his room. "It's been an absolute pleasure working with you, Nefertari. Preferably, we won't have to do it again anytime soon."

Hermione paused and then, on inspiration, cheerfully trilled "Goodnight!" as his bedroom door loudly _banged_ shut.

The moment he was gone, she massaged her throbbing temples and closed her eyes, trying to calm her racing heart back to a normal pace after getting into a near-argument with Tom Riddle. Heaven help her if she ever did. Under her breath, she muttered, _"Arsehole."_


	12. Have You Ever Seen The Past

_The Heir of Slytherin spun around and stiffly stalked to his room. "It's been an absolute pleasure working with you, Nefertari. Preferably, we won't have to do it again anytime soon."_

_Hermione paused and then, on inspiration, cheerfully trilled "Goodnight!" as his bedroom door loudly banged shut._

_The moment he was gone, she massaged her throbbing temples and closed her eyes, trying to calm her racing heart back to a normal pace after getting into a near-argument with Tom Riddle. Heaven help her if she ever did. Under her breath, she muttered, **"Arsehole."**_

**Chapter 12: The Thin Red Line**

Sunday, October 5, 1944

9:47 A.M.

"Hey, Nef, is the strawberry-rhubarb jam over by you?"

"Erm… I think it's right down there, D, do you see it?"

"_Oh_ yeah, I see it." Draco spotted the jam halfway down the Gryffindor breakfast table in front of the teenaged Professor McGonagall. Without hesitation, the first-class flirt leaned as far at he could get over his former teacher, the edge of his fingers just brushing the glass jar. He grabbed it and pulled back down to his seat, winking at McGonagall and drawling, "Morning, sunshine."

When McGonagall actually blushed slightly and smiled back at Draco, Ron snorted and hid his face behind an edition of _The Daily Prophet_, Ginny pretended to stick a finger down her throat and throw up, Hermione rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose in agreement, and Draco popped the lid on his strawberry-rhubarb jam, preening.

After several squabbles, much confusion, and some lonely dinners, the separated six had agreed upon a general rule of thumb regarding their seating arrangement at meals: Breakfast at Gryffindor, lunch at Ravenclaw, and dinner at Slytherin. Lavender had sportingly offered to sacrifice eating at her table, saying, "They're _Hufflepuffs_, guys; we just talk about peace, love, and happiness. After a while it gets a bit boring."

"Hope dear old grandfather and grand-Lestrange don't mind me sharing all their women, but what can I say? It runs in the family," Draco remarked with an offhanded grin, holding up his orange juice-filled goblet in a partial toast in the general direction of the Slytherin table. "Thank you, grandfather!"

"_Sssssh,"_ Hermione laughed, reaching over his plate and pulling his hand down. Straightening the dark chiffon scarf that she had tied loosly around her neck, she waved her yet-empty plate at her still-wet shower head, fanning it and silently urging it to dry faster. She felt her attention unintentionally drawn to a certain haughty looking, platinum-haired older teenager at the Slytherin table, however.

Harry leaned his head down close to hers, his bright green eyes following her line of sight and landing on… "Calugala Malfoy. Can you believe it, that bloke has already approached me _twice_ about entering certain underhanded operations of the dark side. Kept wanted to know why we transferred, _why we transferred."_ To this last phrase, Harry added a whiny edge that Hermione could easily associate with any Malfoy, evil or not.

"The first time," Harry continued in a low voice, "I told him that we had come to study the strange cycles of an exotic and rare mushroom plant indigenous only to the Forbidden Forest. Apparently, _that_ didn't fly with his superiors, so on Friday he asked me again. I told him we were actually here on a highly classified government surveillance exercise that required us to search for a peculiar breed of pure-blooded animals often thought to sport white hair and known for their trademark snakelike characteristics…"

Hermione spluttered and covered her mouth, laughing. Her shoulders began to shake violently, and she buried her head in the table to cover her mirth. To her right, Draco, oblivious, began to massage her back with his left hand, munching on his strawberry-rhubarb bread and surveying the Great Hall, predator-like.

Hermione could almost hear the frown in Harry's voice as he mused, "I haven't really decided if he's figured that one out yet or not…"

"Speaking of figuring it out," Draco cut in, catching Harry's last comment and, luckily, not his first, "How's the 'I Spy on Snake Eyes' going, Nef?"

Giving up with her hair-drying attempts, Hermione shrugged, picking a small red apple off the fruit basket and taking a bite out of it. "I… see him in the morning now, in the common room," she said, chewing and swallowing, "But never at breakfast."

"You know, it's really sort of strange," Draco muttered so the other Gryffindors around them wouldn't hear. He studied the back of his grandfather's equally blond head as Calugala sat on the Slytherin bench on the other side of the Ravenclaw table. "You would think the Dark Lord, granddad, and Lestrange would be the best of friends, given their pureblood supremacy beliefs, but Lestrange and granddad don't seem to like Riddle, and vice versa. I can actually _feel_ the loathing radiating off all of them during Slytherin exchanges."

"Yeah, I noticed that, too," Harry said under his breath.

Something about Draco's statement on pureblood supremacy beliefs jolted Hermione's memory. "You know," she reflected thoughtfully, abandoning the half-eaten apple on her plate, "Riddle said something about purebloods a few days ago." She paused, going over Riddle's and her somewhat stand-offish encounter with Sir Cadogan, and she wrinkled her nose. "It was almost… _degrading_."

"Well, he is a half-blood," Harry remarked matter-of-factly, but a dark expression crossed his face. "Still, Mione, you should have seen him when he came out of the journal in second year. He hated Muggles and Muggle-borns _so_ much, you'd think he had been born with it in him."

Hermione shrugged, glancing over at the giant clock behind the Professors' table. "9:55," she groaned, throwing her napkin down. "Merlin, I said I'd meet up with Riddle in the library at ten to finish the prefect patrol chart!"

"Well, you can't very well let him beat you there! Our star Head Girl being late, what would _that_ look like?" Draco exclaimed. Placing his hands under Hermione's arms, he completely lifted her out of her seat and lowered her to the floor. Before she could respond, he had reached under the table and yanked up her book bag. Shoving it into her hands, he spun her around and lightly pushed her toward the doors. "Go, Nef, go!"

"Draco!" Hermione exclaimed, finally managing to get in a word edgewise. She took a few steps toward the exit. _"Relax!"_

"I _am_ relaxed, Nef, it comes naturally, and the Quidditch rooster is being posted outside the Great Hall at eleven. You have to be there for that!" Draco yelled at Hermione's retreating back. "I want you to _see_ the expression on Evans' face when I get Seeker over him!"

"Mione, you'd better come just to hear him start _crying_ when he finds out he is absolutely _wrong_!" Harry bellowed after her as she finally escaped the Great Hall. Hermione sighed exasperatedly and shook her head, padding down the sunlit stone corridor in the direction of the library.

Honestly, what _was_ it about men and Quidditch?

Thinking back over the course of the week, though, Hermione had to smile. While some certain Hogwarts students had been less than courteous, as would be the case in any school in any time period, the student body as a whole seemed worth spending time with – or saving from the next Dark Lord. Hermione had already befriended quite a few of her new classmates, including a certain Columbia Salvi.

This had delighted Draco to no end, of course, but he had been far too busy to act on any flirting opportunity he may have had. Quidditch tryouts had taken place throughout the week, and Hermione had no doubt that he would grab one of the four open spots on the Slytherin team. Which particular position he would _receive_, however, was up in the air, since he and Harry had made becoming the Slytherin Seeker a personal war between them. Although Harry had repetitively proved to be the more skilled of the two, Draco had an added impetus: Columbia Salvi was the team Keeper.

Hermione, in fact, was the only time traveller who had kept a safe distance from the Quidditch craze. Ginny, Ron, and - to everyone's shock - _Lavender_ had also tried out for their respective Quidditch teams. (Lavender: "Hey! If _he's_ - " (shoves finger at Ron) "- on Gryffindor, then I'll join Hufflepuff just to show him I can kick his bloody arse!")

A slight smile still on her face, Hermione strolled into the Hogwarts library. Pausing, she deeply inhaled and closed her eyes, the old, musty, leathery scent of ancient books and shelves filling her senses.

Like an instantaneous wave, the same disillusionment of being at home, in her time, in her favourite place in the entire school, set in. For a good minute, Hermione simply basked in the foyer, eyes closed in pure bliss, breathing in the comforting aura of familiarity around her... until the real reason of her visit reoccurred to her.

Hermione's eyes flew open, and she quickly scanned the immediate tables for Tom Riddle.

Empty.

The library appeared to be completely deserted.

Hermione frowned and set off down the main, shelf-lined aisle. Blinking in the bright rays of early morning light streaming through the stained-glass ceiling above, Hermione peered down each row of books and around corners into each little alcove that she passed, each containing a worktable.

And each equally empty.

Irritatedly, Hermione quickened her pace, actually rechecking each alcove off the main aisle to assure herself that she hadn't somehow missed him. When her search came up empty handed, however, the brunette found herself back to square one in the front foyer.

She warily eyed the mutedly lit, lesser used quarters of the library to her right and left, the murky shadows cast by the hulking bookcases contrasting sharply with the cheerful, multi-lit main aisle. As she watched, a weak light down the right wing flickered and died.

Of _course_ Riddle wouldn't have sat down at an easy to find, accessible table well-within screaming distance...

Hermione was positive she had gone through a good two-thirds of the library that she had once called her friend before she turned, tired and irritated, into a dimly-lit niche. It was the last workstation before the infamous Restricted Section, far back in the rear of the library. It was also between one of the only two sections of the library on the Dark Arts, Defence Against or otherwise.

_Figures._

Hermione loudly dropped her book bag on the floor beside the small, square table and stiffly lowered herself into a chair facing the wall and opposite Riddle, squinting in the gloomy shadows just to make sure it was him and not some other creepy, Dark Arts obsessed character.

It wasn't.

The sound of books connecting with wood caused the dark-haired Slytherin to pause his reading and glance up calmly. "I hope being _un_fashionably late isn't going to become a permanent habit of yours, Nefertari," he commented, a slight derogatory twist to his words.

Apparently, _he_ didn't have any trouble seeing in the dark.

"Well, maybe if you had left a map and directions at the door, I would have found you sooner," Hermione retorted tartly, reaching for her bag. A thought randomly struck her, though, and her hand froze halfway inside it. "Do you always come here?" she asked keenly.

He surveyed her, his expression unreadable, and nodded wordlessly after several seconds.

Hermione frowned, absently brushing some of her long curls behind her ear with her free left hand. "Then when do you eat?"

Riddle shrugged unaffectedly. "I find the time," he said indifferently, briskly snapping the weathered, worn and coverless book he had been reading shut with a _SNAP!_ and quickly dropping it into his bag.

_Right, **that** explains why you're **never** in the Great Hall._ With that particular little mystery being solved, but still wondering exactly when - or _where - _he ate, Hermione yanked her rosy book bag up on the seat beside her and irritatedly ruffled through it. At last, she emerged with the half drawn-up Prefect Patrol Charts.

Unnervingly, a sense of being watched fell over her, and, as she guardedly put the charts to the table, she glanced over at Riddle. She could almost sense the amusement behind his apathetic grey stare as he watched her unload. "What?" she snapped, her annoyed gaze challenging him to respond.

Riddle raised one dark eyebrow noncommittally and reached across the table, picking up the top patrol chart and skimming through it. "You're unnaturally moody today, Nefertari. No 'Good morning, how are you?' "

Hermione rolled her eyes, tired of whatever game he was trying to play, and snatched the parchment he had taken seconds before back with her right hand, handing him the one that had been below it with her left. _"That_ one's yours, thank you very much, and don't you lecture me on the virtues of politeness, Mr. I-Don't-Do-Formalities."

Riddle's right eyebrow raised slightly as he continued to scan the length of his chart. "Well, be at ease, Nefertari, because I have no intention of doing so," he derisively rejoined without missing a beat. "At this rate, someone as ill-bred as myself would never even _hope_ to catch up to your obviously superior standards of etiquette."

Hermione's mouth fell open, shut, and opened again. "You know, for as _clever_ and _witty_ as you undeniably are, Riddle, I have no appreciation of being mocked," she ground out scathingly. Glaring at him, she shuffled through her book bag again and finally emerged with a small silver watch. She set it on the table and sighed. "All right, now that that's out, let's not waste any more time with pointless arguing. I have to go in exactly forty-five minutes."

She watched uneasily as Riddle blatantly scanned her non-uniform attire: a knee-length, dark, flowing skirt and fifties style, lightweight mauve blouse that had once belonged to Professor McGonagall. It had taken the six time travellers nearly their entire preparation time in the modern world to cajole enough vintage clothing out of their older teachers to suffice when they needed to wear non-uniform, until they got the chance to purchase their own.

"Oh, that's right, I forgot," he said in a mild voice laced with dark undertones of acidity, shaking his head slightly as he lay a schedule and a list of prefect names side by side. He craned his neck and leaned forward, mulling over the list. "You've got an interview with _Witches' Vogue_ at eleven, right? I mean, you, being the rich and famous heiress that you are, can't let your influence in the higher social circles slide just because you moved to England, can you?"

An agitated growl inadvertently escaped Hermione's lips, and she jammed the tip of her quill into her paper, grinding it down in a small circle. Her eyes quickly took in the fact that, despite it being the weekend, and a warm, Indian Summer one at that, Riddle still wore his immaculate uniform and school robes.

"I simply wear what is comfortable, my dear Riddle, which is certainly more than I can say for you," she gritted out in an irately controlled voice. "And, if you must know, two of my best friends are finding out their positions on the Quidditch team — _your_ House's Quidditch team, to be exact — at eleven o'clock, and Draco asked me to be there to give them moral support."

Riddle shook his head again, this time almost condescendingly, and lightly pencilled in a name on his chart. In an indifferent, almost amused voice, he tisked, "So sure your precious du Lac's going to make the team, aren't you, Nefertari?" He looked up and smirked at her. "Would it break your heart if he didn't?"

In horror, Hermione felt her right hand violently rise up under the table as if it had a life of its own, and her left hand wrestled it back to her lap before she completely lost it and gave Riddle the same punch she had bestowed on Draco so many years before.

Why did Riddle have to be so difficult _today_, of all days?

Hermione's mission had always been to stop Tom Riddle from becoming Lord Voldemort at whatever the cost, at whatever the sacrifice, doing whatever it took. Now, even though it was only the first week into her 1944 school year, Hermione was seriously beginning to consider Ron's words from Day One: _'There'll always be a fast way out. Right, Hermione?'_ If killing Tom Riddle turned out to be the only way… Well, then, despite that little yogic voice whispering in her ear that it would be seriously wrong, Hermione would have to consider that option, too.

_Lord Voldemort,_ she thought sardonically, _you are treading on the thin red line between war and peace, and you don't even realize it._

"Then at least I can say he tried," Hermione finally replied, her tone arcticly frigid. She jerked the prefect list toward her from the centre of the table and, on her open schedule, forcefully scratched in _Pepperdine, Piper,_ with the 8:30-10:00 P.M. slot on Thursdays next to _Jenson, Wilhelma._ "Which is a great deal more than I can, at the moment, say for you."

Riddle didn't respond.

Hermione had actually began to enjoy the silence of their little hook, save for the occasional scratching of quills and the ruffling of sheets as either she or Riddle would pull the prefect list toward their side of the table. For a good half hour, she tolerated the dreary settings and impossibly faint lighting as best as she could.

Finally, as the excruciatingly slow minutes ticked by and the lights simply seemed to dim further, just to spite her, Hermione reached the end of her rope. She was seriously considering using her wand as a penlight when a memory from the past Monday wafted through her mind.

She set her quill down, gathering her nerves and a quick breath before she trained a steely gaze on Riddle. The latter was still fully engrossed in his work. In fact, he looked surprisingly normal, absently tapping one hand on the table as he scripted in the names of various prefects in various positions. Hermione wondered if he'd forgotten she was there.

After a moment, she shook her head and determinedly asked, "What events?"

Riddle's eyes remained actively fixed on the patrol chart. Her sudden inquiry didn't seem to faze him in the least, nor did he even stop writing, for that matter, although his tapping hand did freeze abruptly and then slowly lower to the table. "What?" he eventually asked, sounding distracted.

Hermione lowered her voice and added a whiny edge that was very similar to the tone Harry had used earlier in describing Calugala Malfoy. " _'Oh, and do try to keep a close eye on things; I don't want the events of a year and a half repeating themselves,'_ " she said in a rather good imitation of the Headmaster, a cutting edge to her voice as she quoted Dippet's words verbatim. She crossed her arms expectantly.

Riddle stuck his quill back in its well, tipped his chair back from the table on two of its legs, and stretched slightly, for all appearances unconcerned. He was an amazing actor, Hermione recognized. Fabulously talented. "You do come up with the most random things, Nefertari, you do realize that," he commented carelessly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes dangerously, sending Riddle a sure sign that she was not planning on letting this subject drop anytime soon. "Not that random."

She had no way of reading Tom Riddle's expression as he stared unemotionally at her. She was just as surprised, though, when he leaned forward in his seat again and reached across the table for the prefect list. "It seems to me that, instead of working to finish this assignment so as to spend as little time with each other as possible, might I add, _you're_ the one who's getting significantly off-topic—"

_Oh, you are **not** going to get out of this one, Tom Lord Voldemort Riddle_— "Pardon me if I'm wrong, but anything that has to do with the state of this school seems to be significantly enough _on_-topic for me," Hermione snapped, heatedly grabbing his wrist before he could pick up the parchment…

…and releasing it just as quickly, yanking back her hand as if she had just been burned, her 'kind of almondy-shaped' eyes flying wide open in surprise and shock.

This time around, Hermione was certain she saw alarm momentarily pass over Tom Riddle's features. He jerked his hand backward toward him just as quickly as she had, his breaths audibly quickening, but not noticeably, had Hermione not known to listen for it. She knew he had to be frantically remembering the last time she had come in contact with him, and for good reason.

Inwardly, Hermione was doing handstands at her golden opportunity.

_That's right. Squirm, you little worm!_

She decided to hit Riddle out of left field on the first bat. After all, Riddle, was now staring at _her_ expectantly, and Hermione was not one to disappoint.

Making her eyes go slightly off-focus, Hermione stared at the faded torch above Riddle's head as if she were gazing at some distant image. She began softly, slowly, carefully, "There was a… a _chamber_… a chamber of… of… of silence?" Her eyes shifted to Riddle questioningly.

One of Riddle's eyebrows rose slightly as if in appraisal, no doubt realizing that Hermione could have easily found out the premise of the events from the end of his fifth year and be putting on a false show. "Of secrets," he finally said in a low, even voice.

Hermione furrowed her brow thoughtfully and nodded to herself.

"Yes, that's right… the Chamber of _Secrets._ And there was something… something _in_ the Chamber of Secrets," she continued unhurriedly and deliberately, as if trying on each word for size. "It was… it was driven by hate — Kill, _kill_ the Mudbloods," she abruptly rasped in a voice far deeper than her own.

As soon as the words passed her lips, she jerked in mock surprise, blinking and shaking her head. In her mind, she fought to hold in the laughter that was very dangerously threatening to burst from her lips as Tom Riddle's gaze narrowed from that of haughty assurance to extremely heightened suspicion to — could it be?— disbelief.

"A girl - There was a girl, with glasses… She died," Hermione stated bluntly, once again glancing at Riddle for affirmation.

Riddle nodded silently, this time not offering any more information, but Hermione was by no means through with him yet. "She was… in a… in a bathroom… and - and there were eyes, giant, glowing… A giant snake. Sweet _Merlin_, it was huge, and -" She almost smiled, knowing that her next statement was information she could have, hypothetically, only gotten from the Heir of Slytherin himself. "- and there were pipes, a… a gigantic hole in the middle of a bunch of sinks. Hm, that's odd… Wait! It _opened up -_"

BOOM!

Riddle slammed his bag down on the table, jolting Hermione from her 'psychic trance.' As she leapt in surprise, he pointed over at Hermione's little silver watch, upside-down to him. "The time, Nefertari. 10:58," he noted quite tonelessly, despite his lightening-quick interruption. "If you stay any longer, du Lac might grow impatient and leave you for another woman. I saw him checking out Salvi during Defence Against the Dark Arts on Friday—"

That was it, Hermione had _had_ it with Riddle and his cute little apathetic comments!

Angrily, she clenched her jaw and jumped to her feet. Banging her hands flat on the table, she leaned her head down furiously so she could be eye to eye with the seated young Lord Voldemort. Hermione liked to think that she seldom lost her temper, but Merlin help those around her when she did…

"Listen up, you utter piece of _slime_," she snarled, growing even more put-out when she saw a faint ghost of a smirk begin to slip onto his face. "What I do with Draco du Lac is my own business, but I am _in no way_ the money-bought Head Girl position, dumb blond want-to-be that you seem to think I am."

"No?" Riddle asked, sounding quite interested, both of his eyebrows rising unperturbedly as he leaned back in his chair, as if to say, 'That's news to me.'

"_No,"_ Hermione agreed vehemently. She angrily jammed her book bag shut and slung the dusty rose strap over her shoulder. On second thought, she paused, glaring back down at him. "And if you're not careful, you may just find out that _you're_ the one being had."

As Riddle's eyes visibly darkened at her last comment, the Head Girl supremely pushed herself off the edge of the table and strolled toward the beginning of the row of books, heading for the secondary aisle. She turned back toward Riddle at the last moment, trying to keep another blasted smirk off her face.

"That was right, wasn't it?" she asked knowingly. "The Chamber of Secrets, the girl dying in the bathroom, was 'the event' that Dippet was referring to. Wasn't it, Riddle?"

Although Tom Riddle's face held no visible emotion, Hermione could see he was sitting far more rigidly and less relaxed than he had been when she had first entered the library. He blatantly surveyed Hermione for a minute, a move to which she was becoming accustomed, and eventually said in a low voice, "Ten points to Ravenclaw for that… _unerring_ display, Ms. Nefertari."

At his strange way of acknowledging her correctness, Hermione's own eyebrows shot up, but she knew that Riddle had to act, if only for the sake of her not telling other people what she had 'seen,' as though what she had just said was common knowledge.

Which it definitely wasn't.

"Right, well, I'll be seeing you," Hermione said nonchalantly, swirling around and sauntering off toward the main corridor and the sunshine with an alarmingly Draco-like swagger. At last, she could give in to her urge to smile and bask in her brilliance, but a glance at her watch spurred her to a jog, and she absently wondered if she was fated to be late to every single appointment she would have that year.

Still, she had the strong desire to lick her finger and draw a tally in the air. She was one up on Tom Riddle.

_I should win an award for that._


	13. Have You Ever Broken The Rules

"_Right, well, I'll be seeing you," Hermione said nonchalantly, swirling around and sauntering off toward the main corridor and the sunshine with an alarmingly Draco-like swagger. At last, she could give in to her urge to smile and bask in her brilliance, but a glance at her watch spurred her to a jog, and she absently wondered if she was fated to be late to every single appointment she would have that year._

_Still, she had the strong desire to lick her finger and draw a tally in the air. She was one up on Tom Riddle._

_**I should win an award for that.**_

**Lucky Chapter 13: How to Break Four School Rules in One Sentence**

Thursday, October 10, 1944

7:32 P.M.

"You boys have a good practice?" Ginny asked cheekily, grinning at Draco and Harry as the blond and dark-haired Slytherins trudged into the Room of Requirements. Their hair, still dripping from the rain-soaked Quidditch practice, splattered across various areas of their faces. "Finally managed to become one with the clubs?"

"Shut up, West-lette," Draco grumbled moodily, scowling at the smirking redhead. He collapsed heavily in his usual spot beside Hermione. Leaning back and sprawling across her lap, he uttered dramatically, "Hold me."

Rather than abiding by his request, Hermione rolled her eyes, pushed his arm out of her face, and made sure his wet blond hair was safely away from her clothing and bag. "Oh, do grow up, Draco. Personally, I think you and Harry are going to make fabulous Beaters. You both look like naturals to me."

"Both naturals my bloody arse, Nefertari. You're in no position to make that assessment; I don't see you whacking balls in your leisure time."

Harry vigorously rubbed his head with a towel, picked up Ginny's stretched out legs, and plopped down on the Slytherin couch beside her, letting the redhead rest her feet back on top of his legs. "You have to admit, du Lac, we do make quite a pair," he quipped with a grin, pointing down at his girlfriend. "And you're doing a much better job at Seeker than I ever would have, Gin; your Wronski feint today was unbelievable."

Draco snorted. "Yeah, you have to say that because she's your _girlfriend_."

"That's exactly my point, du Lac, you don't see _me_ acting sore because I lost my position my girlfriend—"

"Harry, shut up. Hey, ferretboy!" Ginny sat up mutinously, wand aimed at Draco's dripping head. "Do you want to be known as batman again?"

"Hey!" Hermione exclaimed sharply, hauling Draco to an upright position by a wet collar and holding a palm out to Ginny in a _stop!_ gesture. "Everyone, cut it out! We have much more important things going on than just Quidditch, and the last thing we need are two of us in the hospital wing at our own hand!"

As Draco sat back, shooting Ginny a pointedly dirty look, the Head Girl sighed and glanced over at the empty Gryffindor-Hufflepuff couch. "We're lucky that Lavender and Ron both have Quidditch practice right now, or I'm sure a full-out war would have already broken out."

Harry's eyes, now deadly serious, nodded in agreement. He reached out, placed his hand on Ginny's tense shoulder, and pulled her back toward him. "She's right, Gin, du Lac. We need to focus now."

"Sorry," Ginny muttered sullenly, leaning her back against Harry's side. She glanced at Hermione apologetically. "Being here just makes you want to try and forget, you know? I mean, if Riddle wasn't here, it'd almost be like life had gone back to normal… before… before _everything…" _Her voice cracked, and she gestured helplessly.

Harry rested his chin on top of Ginny' ginger head comfortingly, wrapped his arms around her, and whispered, "_Ssssh_, Gin, I know; I've been a bit too carefree about it, too."

Hermione could honestly say that she knew exactly what Ginny was feeling. Being in a time where the War no longer existed, where Houses were friendlier to each, and where nothing existed to remind them of their hard-won previous life - except Riddle, of course, and the occasional Dumbledore and McGonagall and other relations… The temptation to pretend like their past lives hadn't happened was always present.

But those eighteen years before now _had_ happened; they couldn't keep on acting as if they hadn't.

As Ginny nodded and leaned back into Harry, closing her eyes, he glanced at Hermione. "Mione, what do you have on Riddle?"

Hermione was surprised to see how quickly '_Everyone_, what do _we_ have on Riddle?' had changed to '_Hermione_, what do _you_ have on Riddle?' As if, when she had taken on the Head Girl job, she had also taken on all responsibility for the Tom Riddle situation. "I have a question," she said simply, choosing to put aside a comment on the one-sided effort for the time being. "And my question is, exactly how far in the loop is he?" She glanced around the room at her friends' faces, looking for a response.

Ginny sniffed and cocked her head at the brunette, quickly swiping at her wet eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Dumbledore had originally said that, as time went on, only Riddle's closest friends knew him as Lord Voldemort." Hermione paused, raising her eyebrows at Ginny and Harry. " 'His closest friends.' Tell me, when have you _ever_ seen Riddle with anyone you could call a close friend?"

The-Boy-Who-Lived frowned, mulling over Hermione's question. "It's probably covert; he wouldn't want to be obvious about that sort of thing," he said broodingly, then stared at Hermione, his green eyes curious. "How do you propose we find out about them?"

Hermione smiled mysteriously, bent down, ruffled through her knapsack, and pulled out a small gold key. "Remember how, during the D.A., we gave all the members galleons to tell them about the meetings? Well, keeping that idea in mind, I've taken this key, and I've made a few… _small_ adjustments to it." She held up the key and pointed to a small, hardly noticeable carved letter on its side. "This is Key A. When I say a trigger phrase, the key replicates itself. Here, I'll show you."

Closing her hand around the little key, she turned to Draco, lounging beside her, and whispered, "Draco, there's going to be a party tomorrow night in the Room of Requirements. It's on the fifth floor. Eight o'clock to ten. You need a key in order to get in." With that, she opened her fingers.

One key had multiplied into two.

"Wow," Ginny murmured while Hermione handed a suspicious looking Draco the second key. He held it up in front of his nose, studying it from every angle. "Mione, that is some _advanced_ magic."

Hermione shrugged modestly. "The spells didn't turn out to be as difficult to perform as I had originally thought they would be, actually." Now that Ginny had mentioned it, Hermione had found the activating charm and replicating spell in instruction books of the highest difficultly, and yet, to her delight and pleasure, she had managed to successfully charm the key on her first try.

Strange.

She absently fingered the Amulet of Eras under her shirt, shook her head and continued, "Anyway, see here? The code on Draco's key is A1. That means he's the first person to receive the invitation from my key, Key A. If Draco turns around and invites someone else, like Ginny, for example, she will have Key A11, and if Ginny invites Lavender and Ron, they'll have Keys A111 and A112, respectively. No one can invite more than nine people. So, like a chain, the keys can always be traced back to the source."

She paused, breathless from the nervous anticipation of the possibility of putting her slightly devil-may-care plan in action. "Do you follow me so far?"

"All but the part about a party at eight o'clock in the Room of Requirements," Draco drawled, dangling his key from his fingers and occasionally swinging it in an arc.

"Okay, that's the event. We've got to have something, something that isn't illegal, which most any student — Slytherin, Hufflepuff, whoever — will want to attend. We won't hand Riddle one of the master keys, Keys A through Z. We'll scatter those throughout the fifth, sixth, and seventh years in every house."

Hermione hesitated, and her lips twisted upward wryly. "Granted, it _would_ be better if the teachers never found out about it, so I'm going to have a sign-up roster for everyone who takes one step into the Room of Requirements."

Despite its definite risk, she couldn't help but glow at how well the plan fit together, even though she had come up with the generalities of it in all of two days. "The roster would require each student to give their name and their key code, so they could get in again, but it would also bind them to secrecy unless they're handing out more keys. And the party itself would be finished before the 10:30 Friday curfew, so, technically, what we're doing isn't _completely_ out of bounds…"

"Only the whole 'not alerting the administration part,' right?" Ginny asked with a small smirk. She shook her head. "Hermione, sometimes I ask myself why you aren't here in Slytherin with the rest of us."

The brunette laughed. _Yeah, that would be the day._ "Well, you can keep on asking yourself that, Gin… Anyway, the event is a party… a party/dance. We can smuggle food— sweets, butterbeer and the like —over from Hogsmeade… Harry, you know the way through the tunnels… I could charm the magical MP3 player's sound to augment up to the proper loudness level for music, and we'd have to ask the Room of Requirements to turn into a dance hall of sorts—"

"Whoa, whoa, hang on!" Draco exclaimed, grinning fiendishly and rubbing his hands together in delight. "Nef, you are the Head Girl, you have just suggested we throw a party, and you have just broken about _four_ school rules in one sentence!"

Hermione threw her hands in the air and elbowed the blond next to her, glancing sidelong at him. "That doesn't mean I'm dancing in the aisles about it, D," she retorted exasperatedly. "I don't like wild, out-of-control upperclassmen anymore than the next scholar you meet. This is going to be a controlled party. Accent on the _controlled._ Laid-back. And do you have any better ideas that could get us the information we want without arousing Riddle's suspicions?"

"Wait," Harry interrupted, a dawning realization crossing his face. "Hermione, you're saying this would _guarantee_ us knowledge of whoever invited Riddle? So, when he writes his name and key code down, we could trace it back to the person who invited him, therefore seeing who he's on relatively friendly terms with?"

Hermione nodded, a small smile breaking out across her face. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"So, what if Riddle or one of Riddle's 'close friends' doesn't hear about it the first time around? Or what if Riddle stereotypically decides he'd rather hang in the library and doesn't go?" Ginny asked, a hint of confliction still in her voice, although her brown eyes had begun to gleam eagerly with the silent message, 'If this'll get us one step closer to taking him down, I'm _so_ up for it.'

Hermione grinned again, trying to overcome that jumpy feeling in her stomach, that constant knowledge that she _would_ be breaking oh-so-many rules… "Then it'll become a regularity. And trust me, he'll go. I've only known him for, what, two weeks, and I can already see that he strongly dislikes _not_ knowing about any goings-on at Hogwarts." Raising her voice, she called, "Hey, Harry, Ginny, did you hear there's going to be a party tomorrow night!"

Tossing her key straight up into the air, she caught it and opened her hand, revealing her key plus two more. Slyly, she glanced toward Harry and Ginny and lobbed the two keys across the coffee table to the couple's waiting hands. "Spread the word."

And so began what came to be known as Friday Night Dance. The arrival-of-the-weekend hangout's popularity and attendance within the upper classes would explode exponentially each week it continued.

Whether Hermione, Draco, Harry, and Ginny's primary target ever even received a key, however, was a completely different matter altogether.


	14. Have You Ever Been In Love, Part 1

_And so began what came to be known as Friday Night Dance. The arrival-of-the-weekend hangout's popularity and attendance within the upper classes would explode exponentially each week it continued._

_Whether Hermione, Draco, Harry, and Ginny's primary target ever even received a key, however, was a completely different matter altogether._

**Chapter 14: Have You Ever**

_WHOOSSH!_ (There it went! Did you see the time as it flew by?)

Thursday, November 18, 1944

9:01 P.M.

Hermione burrowed more comfortably into the far right edge of her favourite leather sofa, looking directly at the frizzy-haired blond girl lying on the floor in front of the couch in the Head common room. "And you're certain that the midnight snack trips of random first and second years have been appropriately dealt with?" she inquired of the seventh year Hufflepuff prefect, Janabella Williard.

Janabella nodded with a grin. "Switched the password to the kitchens just like you said to. They actually have to tickle the pear on the painting now," she explained to the 20 or so other prefects and Tom Riddle. "The little buggers'll never figure it out."

_At least not for a few decades, anyway._

Riddle actually shifted his stoic eyes toward Hermione, a definite mocking ring to his voice as he asked in a surprised tone, "You actually thought that up on your own, Nefertari?" He was seated on the same leather couch as Hermione, but over so far to the extreme left of it versus Hermione's extreme right, they may as well have been floating on different planets.

Hermione rolled her eyes, by now used to his derogatory remarks and thankful that they hadn't progressed to anything more physically hindering. _"No_, I usually hire a house-elf to do my thinking for me" –admiring chuckles from the prefects, several of whom actually began to applaud her ability to stand up to the covertly feared Head Boy— "_annnnd_ that about wraps up our business for tonight, prefects. Good work. I'll open the floor up to any further comments or ideas before I say goodnight."

"We'll," Riddle interjected, his initially derisive voice suddenly quiet.

Hermione sighed in annoyance and reiterated, "_We'll_ open the floor up to any further comments or ideas before _we_ say goodnight." She hadn't the slightest idea how she was able to make sense of Riddle's "one word-ers" so quickly, but she was discovering she had the uncanny ability.

She immediately noticed seventh-year Gryffindor prefect Phyllis Hardiman and her fellow Gryffindor prefect Jacobson Andrews, the recipients of Key E and Key R, exchange some kind of eye communication with the other prefects before Phyllis raised her hand from her spot on the floor, her back resting against the tan divan.

Phyllis glanced briefly, almost timidly, at the Head Boy, and then quickly set her full concentration on the Head Girl. "Hermione, we have a strong suggestion for our Christmas activity."

Immediately, Hermione had a preconceived notion of where this conversation was heading, and she wasn't sure if she would be treading on friendly or enemy territory when it went there. "Yes?" she asked warily.

"The popular opinion is leaning toward a dance for the upper classes," Phyllis said, grinning at Ravenclaw Perecles Jeffries - and confirming Hermione's fears - before elaborating, "A Holiday Soiree."

Hermione could almost feel Riddle's gaze shoot over toward her, gauging her reaction to the proposition of a holiday dance, but she refused to look in his direction. Instead, she steadily focused on Phyllis. "Your proposition's sound, Phyll, but I'm—_we're,"_ she corrected with a sigh, "going to need more information before it can start to become a reality."

"Tell me what, and we'll get it for you," was Phyllis' instant reply.

Her mind kicking into complete Head Girl gear, Hermione ticked off her fingers, briskly running through the fastest preparation list she could throw together. "A date that's been cleared with administration, catering, attendance rules, possible entertainment—"

"We were hoping," broke in enthusiastic Hufflepuff prefect Norman Beansfold, Key X, and he was bombarded with encouraging nods from the other prefects, "that it could be the same sort of thing as the Friday Night Dance, except on a much larger, more formal scale, of course."

Hermione frowned thoughtfully, momentarily forgetting that she wasn't the only one in charge, and mentally sketched out the possibilities. "If I were somehow able to transfigure the musical input into a live band…" An energized grin broke out across her face as a particularly animated fifth year nodded excitedly, nearly bouncing in his seat. "Oh, I think I could definitely have fun with that…"

"And you could make the lights coloured instead of white," Slytherin Miranda Wilkes suggested, waving her wand in small, loopy circles, off in thought. By now, all the prefects wanted in.

"But it would have to be a lot more elegantly decorated—"

"—need holly and ivy everywhere, and garland—"

"—and mistletoe!" (evil laugh)

"We could charm fake snow to randomly fall from the ceiling—"

"—But more waltzes and tangos and ballroom dances, just so Hermione and Draco can give us a few… you know…" Phyllis suggested dreamily, and Hermione held back a smirk.

"Probably a bit more slow dances, though, d'you think—"

"_HOLD IT." _

Like a candle snuffer, Tom Riddle's uncharacteristically elevated voice instantly silenced every prefect present. _Great, of **course** he's not going to go for the idea._ Hermione felt herself losing patience even as she pushed her entire cross-legged self to fully face the clearly aggravated Head Boy. "Have a problem, Riddle?" she asked coolly.

The Head Boy, however, briefly shot her an extremely intense and daunting _'Be assured I **will** be speaking with you later'_ stare in reply before looking down at the prefects, all of whom seemed to visibly shrink back from his gaze. But Hermione could see an actual question in his eyes as he icily demanded, _"What?"_

Having to act so cluelessly about a topic everyone else obviously knew so much about must have been killing him. And, for that reason alone, Hermione had a sinking feeling that that question in his eyes was sincere.

_Oh, God._

Tom Riddle really had no idea what they were talking about.

Most of the suspicious, sketchy Slytherins—and anyone else whom Hermione would have expected to follow a promising Dark leader, for that matter—had been in regular attendance at the Friday Night Dance for at least two weeks. Theoretically, Riddle _should_ have been invited sometime between then and now, but… had he not been?

So, had Dumbledore somehow been incorrect when he had told them about Riddle's few 'close friends?'

But what did that _mean?_

Jacobson Andrews, Seeker of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and one of Ron's new mates, was also one of the only prefects not chronically intimidated by Tom Riddle. Propping himself up on his elbows, the blond's shockingly blue eyes evenly returned the Head Boy's piercing gaze. "What, 'What'?" he retorted unflinchingly, a clear challenge to his voice.

Hermione felt like Ron's big mouth itself had entered the room. Her mouth dropped open and snapped shut again, and she quickly turned her head to the right, resting her chin on her shoulder to hide a smile of amazement. She supposed the entire Common Room could hear the irritation positively dripping from Riddle's voice as, unnaturally slowly and articulately, he bit out, "Perhaps you could start with the entire 'Friday Night Dance' bit and go from there…"

Jacobson, to his credit, easily stared back at Riddle with eyes widened in mock-surprise, the expression on his fair, freckled face one of unabashed astonishment. "Riddle! D'you mean to say that you've _never_ heard of _the_ place to be every Friday night?" the Gryffindor asked incredulously, twisting the question so that there was a slight but obvious barb to it.

Hermione bit back another gasp at Jacobson's audacity, and she forced herself not to think of whatever storm would most certainly follow _that._ She was starting to have a very bad feeling that she was going to have to stay in the Ravenclaw dorms for a good month before the night was over…

Her worst fears were confirmed when Riddle's annoyance rapidly boiled over to steamy anger. She knew the exact moment of the transition because his tone took on a dead calm, excessively composed edge, like he was struggling to keep his temper in check, as he carefully said, _"Should_ I have heard of it, Andrews?"

Jacobson offhandedly shrugged in an 'I don't really care' way. "You tell me, Riddle; your Head Girl helps host it!"

Instantly, Hermione's stomach jumped to her throat, and she struggled to swallow as her heart began to race frantically. Although Riddle had been harmless enough during the past month and a half, he had never unexpectedly discovered that the Head Girl was running an underground party operation right under his nose, either.

_He wasn't supposed to find out this way! Somebody was supposed to invite him!_

Swinging her head toward Jacobson, the brunette glared in a non-threatening sort of way and made a violent cutting gesture across her throat with her pointer finger.

Jacobson quickly glanced between Hermione and Tom Riddle as if he had suddenly realized what he had done. Immediately, he held up his hands apologetically, pointedly mouthing '_Sorry!'_ at Hermione. By then, however, it was too late. Slowly, Riddle swept his stormy grey gaze onto his Head counterpart and said in an authoritative but emotionless voice, "This meeting has just been adjourned."

His tone alone was enough to strike a jab of terror into Hermione's heart. _Shit…_

The prefects exchanged _'Oh, boy' _looks. The Head Boy and Head Girl's tendency to argue had become almost commonplace now. Phyllis Hardiman was the first to stand. Like she was a catalyst, all the prefects quickly jumped to their feet, uncurling themselves from the divan and the armchairs, ruffling papers, and rapidly gathering their notes, some sporadically yawning.

While the prefects were vacating the Head common room, Riddle lowered his voice so only Hermione and the few remaining prefects closest to the couch could hear his words. "We need to talk, Nefertari. _Now."_

Hermione's face blanched at his dangerous undertones. "We are talking," she retorted flatly, and Jacobson Andrews glanced back at her sympathetically as he and the other prefects hurriedly made their exit, almost as if they could feel the tension, the explosive pressure filling the room.

Then the portrait hole swung shut with its usual _CREEEEEEK_, the prefects' quiet chatter abruptly faded to silence… and Hermione was alone. With _him. _And he was visibly furious. Desperately, her frantic mind began to scramble through eleventh-hour ideas of how best to make a run for it and get through the portrait hole before Riddle could Curse her or worse; how to somehow call Harry or Ron or Draco for back-up; how to bloody well _fight off the next Dark Lord - _

Her frenetic thoughts were interrupted as, without casting even a glance in her direction, Riddle stiffly rose from his side of the sofa and began to calmly, slowly pace back and forth in front of her, his footsteps pounding in sync to the heavy throb of Hermione's heart.

_KA-THUMP KA-THUMP KA-THUMP KA-THUMP…_

She prayed that he wouldn't be able to hear her trepidation as loudly as she could. From her spot curled up on the couch, her gaze uneasily followed him as he composedly walked across the floor to the opposite mutely tapestried wall and again back to the fireplace… but from his more-rigid-than-normal posture, she could tell that he was anything but cool, calm and collected.

Finally, he paused before the fireplace and crossed his arms in front of him, his eyes staring, unseeing, at some point in the crackling flames. "How long has this been going on without my knowledge, Nefertari?"

Cool voice. Deadly voice. Hermione knew she was about to step out onto land-mine encrusted ground, and she would have to tread very, very carefully. Apparently, the great lengths of secrecy concerning the Friday Night Dance through which the six time travellers had gone had been a little too… secretive.

"Well," she began warily, desperately trying to keep her voice at a relatively composed pitch, "if it's been going on without your knowledge ever since it started, which it sounds like it has… Then it would be four weeks previous tomorrow night."

When Riddle's jaw visibly tightened, Hermione sat up straighter in her seat, gathered all the nerve she could muster and turned dark eyes on him. "And now that you _do_ know, Riddle, why don't you come see it for yourself?" To her surprise, she felt a key materialize in her hand, but thought nothing of it and continued hotly, "People seem to actually have _fun_ at it, and from what I've seen, that concept seems to be just a bit elusive in your lif—"

"That's NOT the _POINT_, Nefertari!" Riddle abruptly shouted, his words echoing off the Common Room walls as he unexpectedly spun furiously to face her.

**_Oh God!_ **

Hermione would later swear that her heart stopped beating for a good five seconds, and she instinctively gripped the square, poufy pillow on the couch beside her, her knuckles white. A fight-or-flight supply of magic suddenly surged through her veins, and she was having an increasingly difficult time squelching the desire to vanish into the tan leather of the couch as the young Lord Voldemort completely lost his temper for the first time since she had met him… or, at least, in her presence.

"That's not the point," Riddle repeated more calmly, taking a deep breath as if physically drawing his released emotions back into himself. She was shocked at how quickly the anger vanished from every section of his countenance save his stormy grey eyes… eyes that now appeared to be going through a violent hurricane, and they shot daggers at her as he said scathingly, "The point is, just because I'm a sodding _half-blood_ doesn't mean that I don't have just as much a right as you do to know exactly what's going on at this school!"

"Just because you're a half-blood?" she echoed instantly, staring at him in disbelief. What did that have to do with anything? Had _Tom Riddle_ just accused _her_ of being prejudiced? "You think _that's_ why I didn't tell you?"

Riddle's eyes lost none of their frostiness, though his eyebrows rose slightly, as if the answer was not at all the one he had expected. Abruptly, he shifted his gaze away from her. "Isn't it?" he finally ground out coldly.

"No!" Hermione instantly exclaimed in complete revulsion, and she almost snorted at the ridiculousness of it. Imagine _her_ being prejudiced against anyone of lesser blood! "When have I ever given you any indication that I even care about whether or not you're a pureblood? And if you somehow think I do, then I've got news for you: I don't!"

Before she could dwell on this strange turn the argument had taken, Riddle shook his head and, through a tightly clenched jaw, snapped out, "Well, even if it isn't—" The volume of his voice rose slightly, and she had the apprehensive feeling that he was fighting to control himself, "Bloody hell, Nefertari, I'm the ruddy _Head Boy—"_

"And _I'm_ the damn Head Girl!" Unable to just sit there and take his accusation-loaded barrage any longer, she threw the pillow down on the sofa and stood heatedly, throwing all caution to the wind. _He hasn't done anything to me so far, let's just pray he doesn't break that pattern tonight… _Without hesitation, she fired back, "And maybe I _would_ have told you, had you not been constantly running from me since we finished the prefect schedule more than a month ago!"

"Running from you?" Riddle actually snorted in disbelief and turned his back on Hermione again, staring into the fireplace. "That's absolutely ridiculous, Nefertari, and you know it. You and I share practically every other NEWTS class, Head duties, _and_ a common room. Just how am I supposed to, as you so refinedly put it, 'run' from you?"

Hermione rolled her eyes disgustedly. "Please, Riddle. If we're going to argue, let's at least be honest with each other. Maybe you haven't seen much of yourself lately — as I certainly haven't — but if I had to wager a guess, I'd say that _you_ were scared!" Crossing her arms stand-offishly, she shifted her weight to her back foot and glared more confidently than she felt at the back of Riddle's dark robes, then his face when he whirled back around.

"Scared?" he echoed scornfully, resuming his heated pacing back and forth across the width of the Head common room. An actual, cold laugh passed through his lips. Its frigid lack of humour was enough to send chills down Hermione's spine as he contemptuously continued, _"Scared,_ Nefertari? Of what? Of _you?"_

Hermione's knees began to wobble unsteadily. "Not _of_ me." She gritted her teeth, drawing herself to her full height and urging her shaky legs to stay still. _I_ _will **not** let him scare me!_ Mentally, though, her rational mind was screaming _BAD IDEA! BAD IDEA!_ but her mouth obstinately plunged ahead. "You're scared of what I can _do_."

Riddle stopped his incessant pacing and stared at her, but Hermione gathered her nerves and took a step forward. That's all it was, one little step… but her leg felt so heavy, the pressure in the room so intense, it seemed like she was walking off the edge of the cliff rather than toward the Head Boy. "You're scared, that if I touch you… I'll see something that you don't want anyone to see."

Something unreadable flickered in Riddle's eyes, but the rage boiling in the grey pools quickly overpowered it. Despite her one-step approach, he held his ground and said in a chiding voice that sounded forced, "Nefertari, really, just because you claim you're some sort of Seer is not reason enough for me to fear you-" A scowl darkened his features even more, and his tone became angrily menacing as he finished in a quietly, "Or _anyone_ else."

Hermione's rational side momentarily beat back her rash autopilot counterpart, and she quickly considered her rapidly diminishing options for emerging unscathed from this tête-à-tête. None of them were looking particularly promising, so she foolishly took another cautious step forward. "If you're not afraid, then, Riddle… Why don't you let me find out?"

_STUPID, Hermione, stupid, **STUPID!** What are you **doing?** RUN!_

Riddle leaned back against the stone edge of the hearth, staying safely out of range of the dying flames, and deftly placed his right elbow in his left palm, his chin resting on his fisted right hand. It took everything Hermione she had not to squirm under his contemplative, blatant stare. After a moment, he calculatingly asked, "Why are you so intent on 'seeing' bits of my life, Nefertari?"

Hermione lowered an icy glare at him. "First you accuse me of stupidity, superficiality, and now discrimination," she retorted acerbically. "Why are you so intent on making a mockery out of mine?"

In reply, Riddle's stormy eyes stared at her with such a burning intensity, Hermione actually felt faint. Suddenly, he said stiffly, "You really don't know anything, Nefertari, do you realize that? You don't. You came here from _wherever_ you came from and immediately assumed I'm some sort of a, I don't know, some sort of a _toerag_ simply because I don't enjoy keeping up the incessantly cheerful chatter that you and your friends seem to be so fond of."

Hermione let out an indignant squeak and opened her mouth to disagree, but he cut her off sharply. "And the reason it bothers me, Nefertari, is because you aren't like the rest of them. You _are_ smart, even I can see that. You have the intelligence, the ability to really be better than that, but you seem to have some sort of preconceived presumptions of everyone here, and that, Nefertari, is how you hold _yourself_ back. You don't look, and you don't listen to what's right in front of you!"

_Is Tom Riddle really standing here **complimenting** me and **yelling** at me at the same time?_

Astonished, her mouth fell open in a little 'O' as Riddle continued scornfully, "You and all of your little friends have such tunnel vision, it's almost amusing! I'm in Slytherin, I can see how du Lac, Evans, and West are. In case you haven't noticed, they act like their knowledge encompasses everything, from how to successfully manoeuvre - in complete darkness, no less! - through the Great Pyramid in Egypt, to having discovered the _vast mysteries_ of the universe." He paused for breath and trained his gaze back on her. "You aren't any different, Nefertari."

Hermione's blood began to boil as he tilted his head to the right slightly. "Tell me, are any of you making an effort to learn about _us? _Have you once tried to step out of your happy little bubble and _really tried_ to find out why the rest of the world runs as it does?"

_Oh, you did **not,**_ she thought wrathfully,****her initial surprise at Riddle's sharing of his obviously well-thought-out analysis morphed to furious anger.

To all arguments, there was a boundary line, and Tom Marvolo Riddle had just most definitely crossed it.

The Amulet of Eras seemed to share her fiery energy, and the heat it was giving off felt like it was searing her neck. "Hey," she cut in angrily, her rational side again being squelched by her raging emotions. He had dominated this argument long enough.

"I have to admit, Riddle," she went on acidly, shoving her uneasy fear to the back of her mind, "that while some of your initial points may have held _some_ relative truth, allow me to make a few corrections. I'll start with my supposed 'happy little bubble.' You, Riddle, _you_ have just told me to not make assumptions about others. Well, that's a two-way street you're walking on."

Repeating, _He hasn't physically injured me yet, he hasn't physically injured me yet,_ Hermione actually advanced on Tom Riddle. As she came so close to the fireplace she could feel the warmth radiating through her robes to her legs, her infuriated self-confidence caused even _Riddle's_ eyes to flash in mild surprise.

"And if you want to play the 'Have you ever _really_ experienced the hard life' game, then, by all means, let's play. Why don't I go first?" she snapped. Not waiting for his reply, she demanded, "Have you ever really loved anyone, Riddle?" Her voice chilled considerably, and her eyes grew momentarily distant before snapping back to focus on him. "And I mean, _really_ loved them?"

Riddle's features perceptibly blackened, and the hot anger he was no longer attempting to mask instantly returned to his expression and his evenly furious voice. "Nefertari, I don't really see how that's any of your damn business."

"Just answer the blasted question, Riddle; it's probably the easiest one you've been asked since first year," Hermione retorted scathingly, roughly leaning her left shoulder against the opposite edge of the stone hearth. Her angry stare unwavering, she stubbornly crossed her arms, unintentionally mirroring Riddle's stance. "All it takes is a simple 'yes' or 'no.' "

Riddle's blazing eyes felt like they were burning holes into hers, but she no longer cared that she was in the middle of a full-fledged row with a young but still highly capable Lord Voldemort. She wasn't about to let up. Not now.

She had gone too far to go back.

Seconds later, and to her utter shock, it was _Riddle's_ gaze that finally tore itself away from their stare-off first. "No," he threw out tonelessly.

" 'No?' " Hermione repeated, an eyebrow arching in near-disbelief. Although, quite honestly, what she had expected him to say? _'Yes?'_ The fellow was, after all, going to become one of the most evil dark lords in the last half millennium; she couldn't exactly fool herself into thinking he that much sentimentalism in him.

_Not **'was** going to become,'_ a part of her firmly corrected, briefly reminding herself of the mission, but, **'_Would _**_have become.'_

"Well, let me give you a little crash course in the way love works, Riddle," she said harshly, sarcastically twisting the words as they emerged from her mouth. "When you lose somebody you truly and deeply love, life automatically becomes ten times more difficult – automatically! There's no choice involved. Ten times more _everything_, because you feel like you have lost the best part of yourself, and you can never, _ever_ get it back."

Hermione thrust her slim face into Tom Riddle's, her eyes burning. "Do not _ever_ assume that my life is one happy little bubble, Riddle."

His expression frustratingly unreadable, Riddle brought his gaze back to hers and stared down at Hermione's furious yet determined features. "All right, Nefertari, as long as we're on the topic of 'have you ever,' why don't you try this one on for size?" he said softly in the lowest, calmest, most dangerously furious voice Hermione had ever heard him use.

_Oh **God…** have I pushed too far?_

Quickly shoving herself off the hearth, she took a hasty step backward, intuition telling her when best to fear for her safety. Fearfully gripping the newly-made key in her fist so tightly it might well have been cutting into her skin, she gaped at Riddle as the dark-haired Slytherin frigidly plunged onward.

"Have you ever really been _hated,_ Nefertari? Have you?" he demanded, suddenly more emotion in his voice than she had ever heard it hold. "Have you ever been disowned by your own bloody father before he even met you? Have you ever been cursed by the woman who called herself your mother before you could even crawl? Have you ever... asked a question, a simple _question,_ in the middle of a crowded hallway, and had no one, not _one_ person, answer back? Do speak up now, Nefertari," he went on contemptuously, "because I'd be absolutely de-_lighted_ to hear about that."

He wasn't angry, Hermione could tell, he was _livid…_ but she could only stand mutely those four or so feet away from him. Anger and fear slowly drained from her body, simply leaving her nearly numb with shock at the words Riddle had just spoken.

_Had he just voluntarily offered her that much information about his 'I don't really see how that's any of your damn business' past?_

_And had it really been **that** personal?_

With a start, Riddle, too, seemed to realize what he had done, and he wordlessly jerked away from the fireplace, viciously tearing his stormy gaze from Hermione's face. Savagely, he brushed his way past her, probably in a hasty retreat to his private Head Boy dorms.

Accidentally brushing against her shoulder.

Immediately following contact, Hermione crumpled to the ground in a dead faint to the sound of ethereal voices screaming in her head, the extra key falling, unnoticed, from her limp hand.

This time, she didn't even do it intentionally.


	15. Have You Ever Thanked The Enemy

_With a start, Riddle, too, seemed to realize what he had done, and he wordlessly jerked away from the fireplace, viciously tearing his stormy gaze from Hermione's face. Savagely, he brushed his way past her, probably in a hasty retreat to his private Head Boy dorms._

_Accidentally brushing against her shoulder._

_Immediately following contact, Hermione crumpled to the ground in a dead faint to the sound of ethereal voices screaming in her head, the extra key falling, unnoticed, from her limp hand._

_This time, she didn't even do it intentionally._

**Chapter 15: Anima Adflictatio**

Friday, November 19, 1944

7:51 A.M.

The first three words that floated into Hermione's mind were _soft, warm,_ and _bright._

The fourth was _Riddle._

Gasping, Hermione bolted upright. Simultaneously, her eyes flew open, though she had absolutely no idea what she expected to see when they did...

Of all the thoughts had had raced frantically through her mind, however, she certainly _didn't_ expect to see herself laying in her own oversized bed in her own bedroom, the copious rays of sunlight streaming through her floor-to-ceiling windows a testament that the morning had arrived without her. Automatically, Hermione blinked and quickly glanced at the clock on her bedside table. 7:52.

_Bugger._ If she ran, she might _just_ make it to Defence Against the Dark Arts on time. "Just" being the key word.

_Yeah, that's exactly what I need for the rest of the year, my own personal Defence Against the Dark Arts system installed in my own common room,_ she thought sarcastically. Throwing back the blue and bronze covers, she glanced down in relatively composed recollection at her clothing from the day before; still on, but rumpled.

It was enough to send the events of the previous night rushing back to her memory. Had she really and truly passed out? Had she really had an enormous fight with Tom Riddle and not died, or even emerged seriously injured? Had Tom Riddle actually taken her upstairs - _up to her room? -_ rather than leaving her lying, sprawled, in the middle of the Head common room like she most certainly would not have hesitated to leave him?

Was her life even making the _slightest_ bit of sense?

Her periwinkle blouse pulled halfway off, Hermione thoughtfully paused in front of her mahogany bureau-mirror combination.

Had Riddle really told her everything that he had?

Had _she_ really done the same?

Eventually, she shrugged, too rushed to ponder the mysteries of the night before, and finished tugging off her shirt, hurriedly yanking her uniform skirt and blouse out of the top drawer and slipping them on. Messily sweeping her hair into an inelegant bun, she distractedly attempted to push the drawer shut. After five shoves and no results, she impatiently slammed her hip up against it, closing it with a _BANG!_

_I can still make it, I can still make it….._

Hermione practically flew across the good-sized Head Girl bedroom. Lifting the strap of her book bag, she was on the verge of slinging it over her shoulder and hurtling out the door...

Until she saw the piece of yellowed parchment that definitely hadn't been there before.

It was stuck haphazardly in the folds of her bag. The paper itself was large enough so that she would notice it, eventually, but small enough that it wouldn't be especially conspicuous… _And_ it sported the slightly antique colouring that Tom Riddle had always favoured.

_Ohhh shoot._

Warily, Hermione regarded the parchment slip as if it had suddenly sprouted beady red eyes and a mouth with dozens of sharp teeth, wondering what in Merlin's name it was doing there... and why, in Merlin's name, he would bother to leave her a note. Hadn't everything that could have been said basically been said the night before?

The seconds ticked by.

It was then that the reality of the situation truly gripped Hermione. _Sweet Merlin, Tom Riddle has been **in** my **room.** While I was **unconscious!**_

Cautiously, half-afraid it would turn out to be hexed, or worse, Hermione drew the parchment out of her bag and turned it over. _Oh, come on, Hermione, don't be a wimp! _Biting her lip, she gingerly forced her gaze downward. In doing so, a solitary line of extremely neat and now-recognizable script was revealed.

_**Nefertari – **_

_**I don't want to know what you saw last night.**_

_**TR**_

For a moment, Hermione's heart stopped beating, and she stared at the note in confusion, her brow furrowing as her mind floated off into thought. What _had_ she seen last night? How could she not tell Tom Riddle what she had seen when she didn't even know herself-

Abruptly - and out of absolutely nowhere - a wave of dizziness swept over her. She gasped, stumbling, and her hand flashed out blindly, grasping her desk. Like a tsunami, the words **_Anima Adflictatio_** slammed full tilt into her head, the force behind the single thought so powerful, she nearly bowled over for the second time in less than twelve hours.

Panting, she crouched down, balancing her elbows on her knees, while her eyes slowing refocused, blurred, and refocused again on the note in her hand. For a moment, she suspiciously ran her hands over that familiar yellow paper. She had begun to harbour the possibility that Riddle actually _had_ hexed the note…

But, deep within the corner of her mind, Hermione realized that that morning had not been the first time that she had heard those two words, and she involuntarily shivered.

Those two words had been the last thing resounding throughout her entire body before she had lost all memory and consciousness the night before.

Hermione slowly sank from her still bent-over position and sat cross-legged on the floor, resting her throbbing head in her hands. She never, ever had migraines. Or headaches, whatever people preferred to call them. So had she actually had a real vision last night? How else would she _ever_ have come up with something like _Anima Adflictatio_?

Despite her vast knowledge from perusing thousands of books throughout her lifetime, Hermione could honestly say had never heard of the spell before. Was it a hex? A charm? A Dark Arts curse? Was it even a spell at all, or was it the result of random words that had been strung together?

_She didn't know. _

The situation suddenly struck her as so ridiculous, she almost laughed. She, Hermione Granger, the ultimate Divination atheist, have her own true vision?

DING! DING! DING!...

_Oh damn._

She leapt to her feet exactly as the clock chimed 8:00 A.M., a rude reminder that she was going to be horribly late. _Again._

The humorous thing was that, up until that point in her life, she would gladly receive detention before she would ever do anything but arrive early or on time. Even now, she never meant to be late; there just always seemed to be extenuating circumstances over which she had no control, but which were, of course, too complicated to take the time to explain to anyone who might be willing to listen…

She had a feeling that Riddle would never let her live this one down.

Flinging open her door and peeking around the wood panel, Hermione made a hasty, cautious scan of the common room to ensure that Tom Riddle was safely out of range. Luckily for her, the common room was completely deserted, the embers from a fire that had been blazing the night before now cold and black.

_Oh, **good,** at least Riddle made it to **his** class on time, _she thought sarcastically. Bounding down her staircase and dashing past the fireplace's smoking ashes, the sunshine streaming through the bay windows, she nearly flew past Sir Cadogan's portrait and into the corridor…

And, at the last minute, skidded to a stop at the top of the staircase outside the Great Hall. A burning curiosity had begun to overwhelm her senses. Last night, Tom Riddle had unintentionally touched her, catalyzing—maybe—a vision. _Anima Adflictatio_ had magically popped into her head that morning.

_Hermione! What are you **thinking?** Something's up, and you need to find out what it is!_

Her hand lingered on the smooth, glazed walnut railing for only a moment. Right then and there, Hermione decided that life was so much deeper than her next Defence Against the Dark Arts class… for which she was already five minutes late anyway.

Instead, she spun around and headed straight for the library.

**6:02 P.M.**

"So, did you set up the Room of Requirements?" Ginny asked Hermione brightly, lying on her back on Hermione's Ravenclaw bedspread, her red hair spread like a devilish halo around her head. She reached out a finger and absently traced the stars that Hermione had recently charmed to appear on her ceiling as they proportionally became more visible with each moment of vanishing sunlight.

"Umm-hmm," Hermione responded absently, busily scanning book titles. "Finished it after Herbology."

Ginny yawned and closed her eyes, and Hermione averted her attention back to the extremely important matter at hand. Her library trip had turned out to be an utter disappointment. Having thoroughly searched what she knew of the library from tip to toe, the only literature she had found on _Anima_ _Adflictatio_ simply described it as '…an extremely advanced and ancient dark curse about which little is known.'

Even now, she groaned at the memory of her single discovery._ Big help that was._

She had begun to go through some of the Dumbledore Ancestral Library bookcases, half of which were set up along the walls of her room, the other half shrunk and packed away in her trunk due to lack of space. Her eyes moved deliberately along the rows of ancient volumes lining the shelves, and she pulled out random books she thought might be helpful in identifying the Anima spell as she went along.

Dark Arts Curses, A Description of.

She had a bit of a hard time imagining Albus Dumbledore taking out some of these books for a light late night read, but she set the book down on the small coffee table to her right nonetheless, thankful that the man seemed to collect all sorts of antique books despite the Light or Dark tint of their subjects, so to speak.

_One down, one hundred more to go._

Hermione spied a copy of Hexes and Dark Magic Throughout the Ages hiding far back and partially obstructed on the second highest shelf of the particular bookcase in front of her. The only way to get to it was by pulling out the ancient, nearly falling-apart book in front of it entitled The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

She glanced at it in mild interest for a moment before gingerly setting the old leather manuscript on top of her first book, a cloud of dust erupting from its pages as she did so. Back up on tip-toe again she went, determinedly stretching her hand out toward Hexes and Dark Magic. She could reach it... she really could--

_TAP TAP TAP._

Hermione paused mid-reach and tilted her head back at Ginny. "D'you hear that?"

Ginny cracked open a brown eye. "Yeah. Don't worry, I'll get it, you keep…" She arched an eyebrow at Hermione. The brunette had practically dug one foot into the bottom shelf, and it appeared that she was preparing to rock-climb the rest of the way up the daunting bookcase. "…You keep doing whatever it is you're doing."

As Hermione grunted a muffled "Thanks" in reply, the redhead rolled off the bed, commando-style. She had made it halfway to the door when the knock came again, louder and more quickly, as if impatient. "Yeah, yeah, hold your blast-ended skrewts—"

Hermione's fingers had just triumphantly brushed the spine of Hexes and Dark Magic when she heard the door click open, and Ginny's voice halted abruptly. The brunette frowned to herself as a good ten seconds of complete silence passed. Finally, the younger girl said sourly, "Oh. It's _you."_

Only a limited number of people warranted Ginny's use of such an acidic tone. And unless Calugala Malfoy was standing at her door, which she highly doubted, Hermione knew exactly who _'you'_ was. And she didn't exactly want to get him wondering about why she had suddenly taken to scaling rather old bookcases.

Promptly, she reluctantly dropped the Dark Arts book and casually stepped away from the shelves. Lightly dusting her hands on her robe, she nonchalantly twisted about her finger a lock of curly dark hair that had fallen from her bun and glanced toward the door. Her supposition had not been wrong: the resident Head Boy's tall and slight but relaxed form was leaning one shoulder on her doorframe and eying her indifferently, yet she wondered why she was still vaguely surprised to see him.

_Hmmm, maybe because you were on the verge of killing each other last night?_ her mind answered sarcastically. Regarding Riddle with a mixture inquisitiveness and suspicion, she decided to skip the formalities. After all, he didn't 'do' them anyway. "Was there something you wanted?" she snapped frostily.

"Now, now, no need to get feisty, Nefertari," Riddle countered tonelessly. Pushing himself up off the door, he calmly prowled into her room, just barely acknowledging Ginny with his gaze as he passed her. Ginny, for her part, rolled her eyes and continued to hold the door open. _Probably in encouragement of a quick exit, _Hermione thought in relief._ Keep it up, Gin. _

Her muscles instinctively tensed as Riddle slowly—_leisurely,_ it seemed—strolled across her wooden floor. He was clearly eying the pictures on her dressers, the trinkets on the bureau, the clothes in her open closet, too, probably – _Merlin, Hermione, calm down! He's already been in here before, remember, and he didn't take anything then! You **checked!**_

For the first time, she noticed the stack of papers tucked under his right arm. "Rickter," he finally began offhandedly, referring to the current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, "wanted me to give these to you, seeing as we do share a common room." He pulled out the parchment and set it down on her bedspread. "Had you not been skiving off this morning, you would have discovered that we've been assigned a group project."

_Oh, wonderful._ Hermione stomach lurched as if she had just stepped out onto a tiny lifeboat in the midst of a rocky, rolling, stormy ocean. With growing feelings of dread, she had a very bad idea where this was going to end up, but she drew herself up to her full height, crossed her arms coolly, and tried to level with his steely grey gaze. "No need to guess whose group _I'm_ in, I suppose."

Riddle hardly blinked in response, but the next time he spoke, his voice was one level lower on his anger-management detector. "Oh, I can assure you, Nefertari, Calugala Malfoy and I've taken as much pleasure in the idea of working with you as you'll undoubtedly take in working with us." He smirked, and not at all reassuringly. "Just think of the _fun_ we'll all have together!"

"It won't be fun," Hermione countered swiftly, Ginny's choking and generating sounds akin to throwing up in the background not helping matters in the least.

The dark-haired Slytherin shrugged his unconcerned disagreement. Hermione followed his gaze as it travelled around her room again, and her back stiffened, her heart beginning to pound more rapidly, when it came to land on the two books on her coffee table.

"You've got a copy of The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders?" Riddle asked suddenly, his originally apathetic tone completely transformed to a mild level of what could have actually been genuine respect. "Only two of those books were ever made, Nefertari, and our lovely library doesn't own the other print."

Hermione let out a soft _whoooooosh_ of relief, praying that her face hadn't gone red from the blood rush. She couldn't care less if he took an interest in The Most Thorough and Complete History; she had been more concerned with him seeing the book under it: Dark Arts Curses, A Description of.

Right, she could just imagine how that conversation would go:

–Nefertari, you never told me that you were interested in the _Dark Arts!_

–Oh, I didn't think I _should,_ Tom, you didn't strike me as the sort of boy who would get wrapped up in that sort of thing!

"Yeah," she managed to say offhandedly, making a casual motion of her hand in what she hoped passed as a spoiled rich-girl gesture, "the thing's been in the family for centuries."

The Heir of Slytherin momentarily glanced at her before he reached down for the book. "In that case, I don't suppose you'll mind if I take a relatively short look at it—"

"_No!"_ Hermione exclaimed. Instantly, she sprung forward and lay a protective hand on top of the aged book's pages, practically knocking over the coffee table itself in the process. "I mean, sorry, I… need it."

_Smooth, Hermione, smooth._

Riddle quickly withdrew his hand, his grey gaze piercing hers. He quickly opened his mouth as if to say one thing, but at the last minute shut it, clenched his jaw, and said in a low but unperturbed voice, "Relax, Nefertari; I wasn't going to burn it."

_You better believe you weren't. Interested in doing a little brushing up on the family tree, Mr. Heir of Slytherin? _

"Is that all?" she asked bluntly, not at all caring if she was being rude. At this point, she just wanted him out of her dorms before he saw something that he shouldn't. Tearing her gaze away from his, she pointedly tilted her head toward Ginny, still at the door. "We were sort of discussing something rather important before you arrived."

To her irritation - to put it mildly - the boy just did not move – or, when he did, it certainly wasn't in the right direction. Hermione could only stand and watch in disbelief as he casually sat down on the arm of the coffee table chair, leaned back, and crossed his arms, his eyes surveying her in a curiously unreadable fashion. "Didn't we have an agreement about social gatherings in the Head dorms?" he asked, though from the way he said it, it was more of a statement.

"Head common room, yes; Head dorms, no," she countered witheringly, impatiently sweeping an escaped curl from her eyes. Honestly, was he deliberately being slow today? What part of "get out" could he not see radiating from every inch of her body language?

Riddle cocked his dark head at her thoughtfully. Apparently, Hermione thought sardonically, he simply wasn't ready to leave. "I never imagined you as one to skip class, Nefertari," he noted casually, as if he were simply observing the weather.

Hermione bit her lip to hold back a very loaded retort. "There's a lot that you don't know about me," she finally responded quietly.

Riddle surveyed her a moment longer, bearing her obviously irritated gaze well. "Yes, I suppose that's very true," he finally said in just as low a voice. Finally taking her hint, apparently, he nodded to himself, stood, and turned sharply, his black robes sweeping out behind him as he headed for her door. Pausing halfway there, he suddenly added unexpectedly, "You're welcome, Nefertari." His voice was unusually subdued, almost... disappointed.

_Erm, thank you?_ As Hermione watched the dark-haired Slytherin start up again and briskly stride out of her room, she was abruptly, unpredictably struck by… well, she didn't know what it was, but it caused her mouth to move.

"Hey, Riddle!" she called at his retreating back, and he stopped a step outside her door. More correctly, he just froze in place without even bothering to look back at her. Somehow, though, she could tell that he was listening, and she said, "About last night... Thanks."

As the words left her mouth, softening against her wishes, Hermione had to fight to keep the horror off her face, and Ginny's gaze disbelievingly moved back and forth from Hermione to Riddle. Riddle, though, merely turned his head back toward her slightly, nodded stoically, the expression on the side of his face visible to her still completely unreadable, and disappeared down the stairs.

Ginny momentarily watched him go before quickly _banging_ the door shut, leaning back on it and crossing her arms. She stared at Hermione accusingly. "You _thanked_ Lord sodding _Voldemort_ for most likely causing you to _pass out_ last night?"

Hermione let out an irritated breath of air and shoved the offending Most Thorough History back onto the shelf. "Ginny, I don't know why I passed out last night, and he took me up to my room after we had had the most violent non-physical fight you can possibly imagine." She bounced down on the mattress, blowing more stray wisps of dark chocolate hair from her face, and added thoughtfully, "I searched my room _and_ did a spell check on myself after I went to the library. He didn't take anything or do anything to me while I was out, Gin. However you look at it, that alone was an indirect peace offering, and I want him to know that he did the right thing."

Ginny threw up her hands resignedly and walked over, sitting down on the bed beside her friend. "Would I be weird if I said I found that he really didn't do anything just a tad bit hard to believe?"

"No, I already think I'm a bit weird for letting it slip so easily." The entire situation was just strange, really. Hermione paused, then smiled slightly. "It'll probably be his one good deed for the year."

Ginny laughed. "Probably. I'll be so happy when this whole bloody mess is over with, though. The whole bloody mess," she muttered darkly, staring out the west window and into the post-sunset twilight. "So what do you think about Friday Night Dance? I mean, now that Riddle already _knows_ about it from the prefects…"

Hermione winced slightly as she realized she would once again have to at least get semi-dressy for the party that night. "Honestly, Ginny, I think the rest of the school will kill us if we cancel it."


	16. Have You Ever Tried A New Approach

"_No, I already think I'm a bit weird for letting it slip so easily." The entire situation was just strange, really. Hermione paused, then smiled slightly. "It'll probably be his one good deed for the year."_

_Ginny laughed. "Probably. I'll be so happy when this whole bloody mess is over with, though. The whole bloody mess," she muttered darkly, staring out the west window and into the post-sunset twilight. "So what do you think about Friday Night Dance? I mean, now that Riddle already knows about it from the prefects…"_

_Hermione winced slightly as she realized she would once again have to at least get semi-dressy for the party that night. "Honestly, Ginny, I think the rest of the school will kill us if we cancel it."_

**Chapter 16: The Art of Having a Good Time**

Friday, November 19, 1944

8:14 P.M.

The Room of Requirements was packed to capacity. Since the Quidditch season had seemed to let up for a few days, the Room of Requirements Dance Hall was the place to be that Friday night. Not only was there music; the room was loaded with innumerable flavourful aromas: Nearly every person in attendance had smuggled food in from dinner, and Draco, Harry, and Ron had taken a covert trip down the secret passage to Hogsmeade earlier that evening, bringing back crates of butterbeer and every kind of sweet imaginable.

"Hermione! _Love_ the outfit!"

Hermione swivelled her head to the left, her curls swept back in a half-ponytail down her back, a few brown wisps still floating delicately around her made-up face. Her latte-coloured eyes swiftly searched through the dim lighting and intermittent white spotlights for the source of the compliment.

She felt a hand lightly swipe her shoulder, and she finally caught sight of Columbia Salvi as she passed Hermione and Draco on the dance floor, Draco's arm wrapped snugly around Hermione's waist. "I think my male escort would agree that you look pretty fabulous, too," Hermione shouted back with a smirk.

The beautiful dark-haired Slytherin shot Draco a saucy grin and a wink, to which Draco beamed very broadly and winked back. As soon as Columbia had disappeared into the throng of students, Draco leaned down and kissed Hermione on the top of her curly head, yelling into her ear, "I _love_ you, Nef, do you realize that…"

"Yeah, yeah—"

"Oi, you two! Over here!" Lavender and Ron pushed through the crowd, precariously levitating six bottles of butterbeer; Ron wearing a rather trendy silk shirt and trousers that had once belonged to Dumbledore himself and Lavender sporting a dress the color of her namesake.

"Hi, seen Harry and Ginny yet?" Hermione greeted, immediately sweeping one bottle off their hands and popping the top. Swaying with the energetic beat of the swinging big band music that was blaring throughout the polished-wooden-floor-topped Room of Requirements, she took a sip of the cool drink, feeling a wave of pure bliss and frothy bubbles wash down her throat.

In the building heat of the packed room, she had to admit she was grateful that she had given in and worn the sleeveless classic black taffeta dress Ginny had urged upon her. The spaghetti-strapped dress clung to her slender form all the way down to the thin, striking pink ribbon and jauntily placed side bow at her waist, where the dark material swept out slightly, ending a few fingers below her knee, the same pink-coloured netting flaring for a half-inch at the bottom.

Ginny had insisted that, along with the cut blending in with forties fashion, the pink fabulously matched the Amulet of Eras, now hanging blatantly around Hermione's bare neck.

"Errmmm," Ron stretched to his considerably lengthy, full height and glanced around the Room. "I think they're closing the door at the moment, but they should be back soon."

"Good." Hermione sighed, watching as various couples, some more talented than others, swing-danced their way around the party floor. "Call me a party-pooper, but we do need to discuss the future of this entire night now that we _know_ Riddle's heard of it. From _me."_

"Party-pooper," Lavender accused obediently, bouncing from one foot to another and finishing her butterbeer as the swing music slowed and began to fade. She placed a hand over her heart dramatically. "Oh sweet Merlin, I actually _stopped_ worrying about Snake Eyes for two little hours out of an entire school year, and I instead selfishly spent the time enjoying myself. I have just doomed all future generations to a terrible fate."

"_Lav,"_ Hermione began in a warning tone, but Harry and Ginny's arrival marked a change to the conversation, Harry trailing Ginny as if they'd had some sort of falling out in the last ten minutes.

With a huff, Ginny collapsed into a nearby chair, her green taffeta dress, the cut quite similar to Hermione's, billowing out from around her waist like sleek evergreen branches. Ignoring her boyfriend, Ginny pointedly turned to Hermione and Lavender and asked morosely, "Do you think if I sit here and look sad, someone'll ask me to dance?"

Harry shared a secret smile with Hermione, then took a step back and pretended to seriously survey his doe-eyed girlfriend, the edges of her lips now pulled down into a miserable pout for show. "Honestly, Gin, I think if you fall down on the floor and pretend you're choking, you'll get a bigger reaction."

"Yeah, all the boys would just jump right in to give you mouth-to-mouth," Lavender piped in. The comments were enough to make Ginny's stone face crack, and she laughed, shoving Lavender playfully and shooting Harry a withering look.

Hermione held back a smile, taking one last swig from her butterbeer bottle and setting it down on the table. Suddenly, though, her head snapped up, automatically feeling a shot of adrenaline surge through her veins as an all-too-familiar, mesmerizing beat slowly wound itself around the room.

Subconsciously, Hermione felt Draco's breath began to blow in soft puffs on her neck, felt him lean his head down and rest his chin on top of her bare shoulder. Her feet began to tingle irresistibly as the music gained momentum, and she could just imagine that obnoxious smirk growing on his obnoxiously good-looking face as he purred, "Think you're up for a little tango, Nefertari?"

Hermione cocked her head to the right, her dark eyes naughtily sliding sideways to meet Draco's clear blue ones. She couldn't help but smile slyly as she wordlessly held up her right hand. Draco reached over her shoulder, taking it firmly in his, and twirled her around to face him. Prowling backward onto the dance floor, he leisurely treaded his way through the dancing couples until he found a relatively open spot.

Of course, it _did_ help that the other students parted like the Red Sea to let her and Draco through. They had learned from experience that the Ravenclaw and Slytherin needed their space, and they were more than willing to give it to them, given the visually spectacular results.

Feeling him stop, Hermione leaned her entire body forward, her back elegantly arched, and wrapped one tanned arm around Draco's pale neck, pulling herself as close to the blonde as she could. The Amulet was burning against her neck, the power of the dance pulsing up from the floor though her petite black stiletto and right on into her support leg as she gracefully lifted her slim left leg and draped it off Draco's side.

They paused momentarily in the lull before the storm, forehead-to-forehead and nose-to-nose. Her stomach jumping in sizzling anticipation, Hermione's long dark lashes brushed his cheek as she huskily breathed into his ear, "Do try to keep up, Draco darling."

He and she smirked.

**8:30 P.M.**

"Hermione, you and Draco were _amazing!_ Great party!"

"Sweet Merlin, did you see Draco du Lac dance the tango like he was ready to passionately make love to her right out on the dance floor?" —gasps in agreement— "Good _Merlin_, that is a gorgeous creature. I would _kill_ to be Hermione Nefertari for an hour—"

"—for being the Head Girl, she sure cleans up _just fine. _Did you see that last twist-dip? I almost _passed out;_ I didn't think something like that was humanly _possible—"_

Hermione groaned and rammed her way though the crowds, for the first and probably only time in her life wishing that Crabbe and Goyle Juniors were in the vicinity so she could recruit them as bouncers. As she passed an abandoned table, she snatched up a paper plate and began to rapidly fan herself, but after five seconds of little or no difference in the growing heat, Hermione dumped it back on the next table and continued on her way along the edge of the dance floor.

The right spaghetti strap of her little black taffeta had long since slipped off her shoulder, and she impatiently pulled it back up while gracelessly jumping up and down in the small black stilettos, silently cursing the gods who had not bestowed her with Hagrid's height. Continuing to hop, trying to catch sight of the top of either Draco's, Ron's, or Harry's head in the shadowy lighting of the dance hall, Hermione quickly discovered that many Dracos, Rons, and Harrys were rotating their way through the crowd.

"Bugger," she muttered, securely landing back down the ground. Reluctantly abandoning the attempt to fly and beginning to seriously consider Accio-ing one of the boys over, she backed up for a different approach — and ploughed right into someone from behind. _AHHHH! Where did all these people come from?_

"Sorry!" Hermione exclaimed automatically, turning apologetically. "Good Merlin, it's insanely jammed up in he— _Riddle?"_

All thoughts of finding Draco, Ron, or Harry flew out of her head, and she could only gape incoherently at Tom Riddle, still wearing his uniform white oxford shirt and dark slacks as he always did, standing in one of the less populated corners of the Room of Requirements Dance Hall.

The Head Boy's lips twitched into a small smirk as astonishment visibly exploded across her features. "Don't sound so shocked, Nefertari. Remember, this is my school, too. I have just as much of a right to be here as anyone else."

Of _her_ Room of Requirements Dance Hall!

His words did very little to placate her bewildered mind. Or maybe it was just the heat. "How… how did you get in here?" she finally managed to choke out in disbelief.

Amusedly following her line of thought, Riddle reached into his pocket and mockingly dangled a small gold key in front of her nose, his apathetic gaze travelling from her face to the huge, priceless ruby around her neck. "Drop something last night, Nefertari?" he asked sardonically, cocking an eyebrow.

Good Merlin, her key _had_ multiplied during their argument last night, hadn't it?

Hermione felt like a complete idiot for forgetting about that, for not looking for the key where she had dropped it by the fireplace the night before. Irately brushing some dark, sleek curls off her shoulder and noting with some dismay that her blasted strap had slipped off her shoulder again, she began to think up a magnificent retort…

And stopped.

Hermione had no idea, absolutely _no_ idea why she did it… but the fact remained that she did.

With the calming symphonic strains of a waltz floating in the background, Hermione Granger Nefertari smiled the warmest smile she had ever smiled at Tom Riddle. "Well, since you actually decided to show up, I honestly do hope that you have a good time," she said with only the slightest hint of forced sincerity.

The haughty expression of superiority faded slightly from Riddle's face. His grey eyes squinted at her in the semi-darkness as if he was trying to make sure it really was _her_ he was talking to and not some other random tan girl with curly dark chocolate hair. "_What?"_ he asked, raising his voice over his typically more reserved tone in order to be heard over the volume of both the masses of students and the music.

"I said, _have a good time!"_ Hermione repeated more loudly, surprising even herself as the words flowed more easily from her mouth. Being polite to Tom Riddle took an unexpectedly and vastly smaller amount of energy than constantly arguing and coming up with snappy comebacks, and it _did_ seem to throw him a bit. She mentally kicked herself for not having tried this earlier. "All I ever see of you is you working on something or another. You _need_ a break like this."

She smiled at him again, more genuinely this time as she realized that her words were pretty much truth. Absentmindedly, she began to make her retreat, her face glowing and slightly breathless as she began to wonder if Draco could handle a salsa before the night was over. Her eyes slipped around the sea of dancers again in search of a familiar face before coming back to focus on Riddle once more. "I'll be seeing you in the morning?"

Riddle was still staring wordlessly at Hermione as she benignly turned to go, his eyes betraying the smallest hint of confusion. "I—_oof!"_ he suddenly gasped, jerking. For the briefest of moments, he staggered, then bent double into a sideways 'L,' clutching his stomach.

At the gasp, Hermione spun back toward him, and for a split second, she stood, dumbstruck at his motions. She would not be lying when she said she was completely stunned to see Tom Riddle voluntarily moving into such a weak position before a room full of people, even if most of them weren't even looking. _What on earth is he **doing?**_

Then the reality of what was happening hit her.

"_Riddle!"_ she hissed urgently, springing toward him as quickly as her heels would allow.

The dark-haired Slytherin, though, stumbled backward a few steps, hastily moving away from her before she had a chance to touch him. "Nefertari-" Breathing hard, he held out one arm as if to fend her off, the other arm still gripping his side, a grimace on his normally unruffled face. "Go…find whoever you were… looking for -" He gasped in a breath of air, sounding very much like he was drowning. "I'm fine…"

Hermione furtively glanced around, making sure that, in the heat of the dance and the obscurity of their position in the room, not too many people were noticing the drama unfolding between their two Heads. Sighing in relief at the lack of attention, she retorted edgily, "My _arse_ you are, Riddle. Do you _think_ I'm an idiot?"

When Riddle smirked at her comment and began to chuckle dryly, Hermione seriously considered slapping him, but she resisted the urge when the snicker died on his lips and he cringed over again. "Riddle," she tried again, shocked to hear the concern in her own voice.

Maybe something really _was_ wrong with him. But why wasn't he letting her help him stand?

"Do you need me to get Madam Lamberdeau?" she asked tightly, referring to the 1944 equivalent of Madam Pompfrey as she crouched down beside his still-doubled over form and tilted her head so she could see his face more clearly.

His grey eyes burned into hers, but in the darkness, they were even more impossible to read than usual. Hermione could only watch helplessly, completely clueless, as he began to shake his head in a _No,_ but abruptly sucked in another sharp breath, his face contorting into a mask of pain as he yanked his arm more tightly around his waist.

"_Tom!"_ Hermione exclaimed, alarmed now. This time, she reached out and firmly grabbed Riddle's shoulders before he could jerk himself away. _"Breathe!_ Try to breathe!"

As if he had actually decided to listen to her advice, Riddle froze and clenched his jaw, moving nothing save his heaving chest. He seemed to be trying to conserve as much energy as possible as his ragged breath slowed and began to flow more evenly.

"That's right," Hermione said soothingly, her relatively composed exterior giving away nothing of her raging inner sea of questions. What in Merlin's name— Lord Voldemort had never been sick! It wasn't in the records!

Slowly, almost like he was trying to hold on to what was left of his dignity, Tom Riddle gracefully, stiffly straightened up, a cold sweat beading around his dark hairline, his hand still tensely holding his side. Wordlessly, his eyes travelled down to glance at Hermione's hands, still tightly gripping his shoulders. "You don't have to cut off the bloody circulation, Nefertari."

Whatever concern Hermione had previously felt for Riddle quickly began to fade, and she dropped her arms, only to end up crossing them expectantly. "What was that, Riddle?" she demanded.

The Heir of Slytherin swayed precariously, reached out for the corner junction between the south and west Room of Requirements walls, and steadied himself. He stared at her flushed face intently, almost suspiciously, as he regained his balance and didn't loose it again. "You just touched me, and nothing happened. No visions."

_Ah, his no-touching phobia is explained, _Hermione thought, only slightly enlightened.She brushed aside his challenge. "It doesn't always happen, you know. And don't try to change the subject. Are you going to tell me what just happened to you?"

Riddle slowly, gingerly dropped his arm from about his stomach, by now having returned back to his full height. His normally immaculate hair, perfectly parted on his right side and carefully kept out of the way, was hanging more messily and in his face from when he had jerked over and inadvertently thrown it out of place. "No," he eventually said shortly.

"No?" Hermione echoed incredulously, cocking her ear toward him in disbelief. Her dark eyebrows flew up, and her foot began to tap impatiently. _"No?_ You practically have a seizure, scare me half to _death,_ and you won't tell me why?"

A new, foreign expression crossed his face. Had it not been Tom Riddle she was dealing with, Hermione would have thought it had been a flicker of… remorse? But no; Riddle licked his lips roughly, quickly searched the ceiling as if the answer to his thoughts was floating somewhere above his head, and glanced back at her petite self. "Listen, Nefertari, I—"

"Mione! Good Merlin, we've searched this whole bleedin' place twice, what in Merlin's name are you doing hiding over he — Oh." Ron and Harry stopped two steps from Hermione side, staring in a most unwelcome manner at the Head Boy and possible future Dark Lord. Ron scowled threateningly and took a step forward, hand over his wand. "Bloke's not bothering you, is he?"

Irritatedly rolling her eyes, Hermione turned on her gangly, overprotective friend. "Oh, for goodness sake, Ron, just because he's a Slytherin doesn't mean he's trying to kill me."

_Did I really just say that?_

She tilted her curly head back toward Riddle as he stood warily, the wall still supporting most of his weight, all but recovered from whatever kind of fit it was that had just struck him. "If anything, I have _him_ cornered."

Harry, diplomatic as always despite the dark glare that had initially crossed his green eyes, cut in front of the temperamental redhead, his eyes silently warning the Head Boy away as he casually wrapped one arm around Hermione's shoulders, tugging up her disobedient, fallen strap as he did. "Riddle."

Riddle's left hand released the wall; he had apparently regained enough of his strength to stand on his own. "Evans," he said flatly, his tone somehow… harder, much darker than it had been before Ron and Harry had come. His calculating gaze moved between the openly hostile Ron and the protective Harry, finally returning to the half-confused, half-annoyed Hermione.

"Well, Nefertari, far be it from me to disrupt your grand party," he said coldly, nonchalantly nodding at Harry. His eyes lingered on Hermione for the briefest of moments before he strode briskly past Ron and into the sea of dancers in the general direction of the door, running a hand through his mussed hair as he tried to smooth it back into place, his other hand stuck offhandedly in his wand pocket.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked as he, Ron, and Hermione rotated in a 180 degree half-circle, watching Riddle make his careless exit.

Hermione couldn't help but stare at the spot at which Tom Riddle had blended in with the mob and vanished, her eyes distant, her mind moving at dizzyingly fast speeds, the last seven minutes of the night replaying like a closed circuit, a broken record, over and over, over and over… but not seeming to make any progress.

"I honestly have absolutely no idea."


	17. Have You Ever Given A Gift

"_What was that all about?" Harry asked as he, Ron, and Hermione rotated in a 180 degree half-circle, watching Riddle make his careless exit._

_Hermione couldn't help but stare at the spot at which Tom Riddle had blended in with the mob and vanished, her eyes distant, her mind moving at dizzyingly fast speeds, the last seven minutes of the night replaying like a closed circuit, a broken record, over and over, over and over… but not seeming to make any progress. _

"_I honestly have absolutely no idea."_

**Chapter 17: Cats and Dogs**

Sunday, November 28, 1944

3:02 P.M.

"Mione! We've got a snowball fight going on in the courtyard, come on!"

"Hate to disappoint you, Idiot Number Two, but I'm actually off to see Idiot Number One," Hermione teased Harry over her shoulder as she jauntily strode off toward the Hospital Wing. She laughed as Harry clasped his hands over his heart and pretended to yank out an imaginary knife before he turned and chased Ginny out the quad door.

Her feet danced lithely over the steps as she climbed, staircase after staircase. She dryly remembered the time in third year when she and Harry had used the time turner and sprinted up every single flight so they could make it back to the Hospital Wing before Dumbledore could shut its door. Even though the werewolf hadn't killed her then, _that_ mad dash almost had.

Shaking her head reminiscently, Hermione briefly ran over the wild events from the day before. Thinking of the adrenaline-spiked Saturday, she couldn't help but smile, but it turned into a huge yawn from the four hours of sleep that she had gotten the night before.

Yesterday had been the huge Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch game.

Hermione guiltily admitted to sitting in the Gryffindor stands but still cheering for Harry, Draco, and Ginny on Slytherin, as well as Gryffindor Keeper Ron. The game had been one of the most excruciating Hermione had _ever_ seen. It had gone back and forth, neck and neck, for hours and hours and _hours_…

Until, in the wee hours of early Sunday morning, both Ginny and Gryffindor's seeker, Jacobson Andrews, had simultaneously spotted the Snitch floating between two prowling Bludgers.

Draco, the Beater nearest Ginny, had swept in to clear the way for her broom… and had whacked the first Bludger away so powerfully, the CRACK could be heard throughout the entire pitch, his club completely splintered into an unusable mess of jagged wood in the attempt.

Of course, that didn't help Ginny much when, as she and Jacobson hurtled toward the Snitch at hair-raising speeds, the second Bludger locked onto her like a torpedo to a submarine. By this time, Harry, too, was rushing over to help out, but he was still far too far away to do any good.

It was then that Draco made the ultimate sacrifice.

Seconds before impact, the blond threw his broom next to Ginny's, and a moment later the Bludger utterly smashed his arm bone into pieces. Miraculously, although being quote 'blinded by pain,' Draco, being Draco, managed to stay on his broom long enough to see Ginny shove Jacobson Andrews out of the way and close her hand around the tiny, elusive golden ball, finally ending the Quidditch game at 1:34 in the morning.

Even though Ginny captured the Snitch that morning, Draco du Lac became the certified hero of every girl present at the game… His Hospital Wing quarters were enough proof of that. As she entered the gaping wooden doors of the Infirmary, Hermione's eyebrows arched, and, shaking her head for a completely different reason, she laughed in spite of herself at the endless piles of sweets, cards, and flowers surrounding Draco's sickbed.

Or, like Lavender had done earlier that afternoon, she _could_ have screamed, "Bloody _hell, _you are _so_ sharing all of that!" and taken a wild dive into bed with him.

Hermione decided to stick with the "Hey, ferret boy" greeting that she used whenever Draco was in a particularly spoiled mood.

"Good _morning_ sunshine, and how are you on this lovely afternoon?" Draco called out cheerfully, waving her over with his uninjured left hand, his right arm in a white sling wrapped securely around his neck. As she approached, he began to bounce up and down in his bed like an over-enthusiastic five-year-old.

"I wouldn't be so cheeky if I were you, I saw Madam L cooking up something freaky weird in her little pot back there in her office," she advised him, still smiling, as she stopped next to his laden-down bedside, accidentally stepping on a pack of chocolate frogs left by some admirer in the process. As she did, one of the frogs wrenched itself free of its wrappings and dynamically launched itself at her. Letting out a muffled shriek, she nimbly leapt a foot backward as the chocolate menace took off around the Hospital Wing.

"Are you kidding?" Draco smirked as he watched her glare at the spot the frog vanished and straighten her shirt with a huff. "She loves me. Watch this." Clearing his throat, Draco winked at her, slumped against the bed, and set up a tortured wail, moaning piteously, "_Oooooohh_, the pain, the _pain_… Mary, I can't take it anymore!"

"Mary?" Hermione echoed with an incredulous grin, one thin eyebrow rising in barely controlled humour as she tried not the give the already egotistical blond an even bigger head.

"Her first name," Draco muttered. "I read it in the yearbook before we came— Oh, Mary, _Mary,_ thank the _gods_ you're here," he whimpered dramatically as the plump, midwife-like Mediwitch ran up, moving surprisingly quickly for her older age. Dropping his whine, Draco sat up and shot her a charming smile. "Mary, darling, I know you're already married, but maybe we could have an affair?"

Madam Lamberdeau—or Madam L, as students liked to call her—raised both of her eyebrows and brandished a large goblet. "I'll be sure to put you on the list, laddie," she said wryly, her voice smothered by a thick Scottish accent. From the Mediwitch's amused eyes, Hermione could tell that Madam L found Draco hilarious.

Draco's eyes grew as wide as saucers, however, when he noticed the smoking liquid inside the goblet. Hermione could see all thoughts of eloping with the salt-and-pepper-haired school nurse fly out of his head like a Snitch as he nervously chuckled, "Ohhh, Mary…."

Smirking wickedly, Hermione murmured, "Oh, she _looooves_ me," just loud enough for Draco to hear and Madam L, on the other side of the bed, to miss.

He glared at her but then spluttered and began to choke as the Mediwitch poured the disgusting smelling—and, Hermione assumed, equally disgusting tasting—goopy, bubbly mixture in the goblet down his throat. "Ohhhhh… _Mary," _he feebly choked out again, coughing loudly as he finished the potion, the wisps of smoke still rising from the now-empty but smouldering goblet.

Madam L winked at Hermione cheerfully. "Give him two seconds, dearie, and he'll be out like a light."

Hermione decided that she liked Madam L much more than she had liked Madam Pompfrey. "I don't know you how you stand him," she remarked good-naturedly, fondly smiling down at the now-unconscious-as-predicted Draco.

Madam L waved her free hand dismissively. "Oh, he's one of the more exciting ones, lassie. When he whines, it's all in good fun—I've had many a student who honestly _does_ whine that much. Like sirens, they are. Although Merlin only knows how he found out my first name so quickly…"

The Mediwitch frowned briefly, hands on her hips thoughtfully, before shrugging and walking from Draco's greatly adorned bedside and into the main aisle. Hermione followed a few steps behind, one hand wrapped around her wand in her back pocket, cagily searching the Infirmary for the runaway chocolate frog. If the little pest decided to come back for Round Two, she would be ready.

"And then I have the patients who never say a word, even when there _is_ a problem," Madam L continued, oblivious to Hermione's search-and-destroy mission stance. She gestured to a bed closest to the farthest wall of the Hospital Wing, across the aisle and two to the right of Draco's. "Those are the most difficult ones, lassie. With them, you have to probe and probe until they _finally_ tell you what's wrong."

Hermione's eyes momentarily abandoned her hunt for the chocolate menace and followed Madam L's nudge toward the only other occupied bed in the Infirmary, its empty bedside appearing severely austere and depleted when compared to Draco's ridiculously oversupplied one. "Who is that?" she asked curiously, squinting toward the far wall.

Madam L casually resumed making her way back to her small side office. "Tom Riddle," she said unceremoniously.

Time froze.

As if they had a life of their own, Hermione's feet stopped moving.

Her mind screamed, **_WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME IS GOING ON?_**

Without a moment's hesitation, she spun around and swiftly took the few giant steps necessary to make it back to the other taken bed. Its occupant's back was facing the entrance of the Infirmary, making it difficult to tell exactly who the patient was. Maybe Madam L was wrong. Maybe it wasn't really him.

Not giving up, Hermione went around to the other side of the cot, her shoulder brushing up against the cold stone wall…

And saw that Tom Riddle was indeed lying in a bed in the Hospital Wing.

With his eyes closed, the Heir of Slytherin looked surprisingly peaceful, she instantly noticed. His entire face was relaxed, not composed, severe, and emotionless like it usually was. So dramatic was the change to his features, it was like… like a mask had been removed.

Imagines of Riddle nonchalantly reading the notes at the prefect meeting the day before filled her mind. He had seemed completely fine then... And that had only been a little more than twelve hours ago…

So distant were her thoughts, she barely felt Madam L come up and stand behind her until the Mediwitch said sympathetically, "Poor boy."

" 'Poor boy?' " Hermione echoed, frowning disbelievingly and shifting her eyes away from Riddle's sleeping face to Mrs. L's plump one, completely and totally confused.

Madam L shook her head compassionately, looking down at the Head Boy. "He was cursed, poor boy, a horrible curse, by his own mother, no less. Just terrible, what people in this world can do. One of the worst ones to be inflicted with, too; it's one of those curses where it either hits you or it doesn't, but if it does, it's nearly untreatable if allowed to significantly progress."

Untreatable if allowed to significantly progress? Good Merlin... sounded like the wizarding equivalent of cancer. "What is it?" she asked innocently, crossing her fingers behind her back and hoping… _Blast._

Madam L shook her head in a _No,_ her face automatically turning professional - probably routine after years of repeatedly hearing that same question. "I'm afraid that's private information only Mr. Riddle himself would be able to share with you. Ms. Nefertari. I'm sorry."

_Well, great, then, I'm never going to find out that way. Back to square one we go._

An idea suddenly seemed to strike Madam L, and the Mediwitch moved from behind Hermione to her side, studying the brunette's slender face closely, Hermione's profile more visible because she had put her curly hair into a loose bun. "You are the Head Girl, Ms. Nefertari, are you not?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly, and she nodded, unsure of what whether or not she was Head Girl had to do with anything. Madam L, though, simply gazed down at the unconscious Riddle as if she could read his mind through his dark hair. In a distant voice, she mused to herself, "I _wonder…"_

The Mediwitch trailed off before she finished the statement, and Hermione pivoted her entire head to the right so she could fully see Madam L, see any faulty reaction the woman might accidentally give in her next response. "You wonder… what?"

Madam L walked around to the other side of Riddle's bed and absently set Draco's empty goblet down on the small bedside table, raising both of her hands in an impassive shrug. "I just find it interesting that the curse has not affected Mr. Riddle at all, his entire life… until this year."

_Yeah, I find it interesting that it has affected him at all **ever,** considering that this little curse business is not mentioned **ANYWHERE** IN **ANY** OF DUMBLEDORE'S NOTES!_

"How much longer will he be in here?" she innocently asked the Mediwitch. She tried to come off sounding unconcerned as she casually glanced from the many get-well letters and candy wrappers littering Draco's bed to the pristine but forlorn white sheets of Riddle's.

And suddenly, for some perverse, _ungodly_ reason, Hermione involuntarily felt the slightest twinge of sympathy for the seventeen-year-old lying unconscious in front of her.

_**Sympathy?** For **Lord Voldemort?**_ her rational side scoffed quickly, shoving the radical notion from her mind. _Last night was a late night, Mione, you clearly need to get some sleep. _As if on command, she yawned again.

Madam L again shrugged in reply. "I can only do so much. The length of recuperation depends entirely on the patient. If I had to speculate, I'd say two, maybe three days if he recovers quickly, but with his particular curse, he could be here for weeks if he doesn't…"

_**Weeks?** Good Merlin, what **is** this thing? _

Suddenly in a foul mood, Hermione resumed staring at Riddle and wrinkled her nose pensively. "It's just so… so strange. He was at the prefect meeting yesterday afternoon, and he seemed all right… Well, as all right as he normally is, which can sometimes be called insufferabl— Erm," she cleared her throat, "Anyway, I meant to ask you, _how_ could this have affected him so suddenly—_Wait."_

Snapping her fingers, she turned and pointed at Madam L, and the older woman's face seemed bemused at Hermione's stream-of-consciousness speech. "You know, something strange happened to him at a…" Hermione quickly searched her imagination, "at a _social event_ a few weeks ago. It was a… a house party, and he was there…"

She frowned, easily recalling the odd events of that night. "I was talking to him, when he almost passed out, and for no apparent reason, really. It was as if… as if there was some sort of internal pain that just rose up and held on to him for a good two minutes. I…" Momentarily distracted, she glared down at the unsuspecting dark-haired Slytherin, "I tried for _days_ to get him to tell me what had been wrong with him, but he refused, the stubborn prat."

Madam L nodded thoughtfully, giving Hermione another one of those shrewd but unreadable expressions. "It was most likely a side effect of the curse, I'll wager."

"Yes, but why then?" Hermione asked in frustration, frowning at the very strong I-Know-Something-You-Don't air that the Mediwitch had begun to give off. Nothing seemed to make any sense! "Why at random times?"

When Madam L didn't answer her question—probably 'classified medical history'— Hermione sighed at the mystery. Now, since Madam L clearly wasn't going to provide her with any more information save the fact that Riddle _did _have something, all of the answers to any of this looked hopelessly unattainable.

"Do you think I should send him a get well card or something?" she mulled. Her own, long-lashed eyes widened in astonishment as soon as the words spontaneously exited her mouth, but she tilted her head toward Draco's bed and continued, "I mean, he couldn't exactly compete with that nearly disgusting amount of support, but at least he'd have something…"

A small smile spread across Madam L's face. "I think he'd like that very much, Ms. Nefertari."

She nodded, still beset with hundreds of warring, perplexed emotions. Now, on top of that, she tried to figure out where the hell she was going to find a get-well card for Tom Riddle, and another part of her tried to figure out what the hell she was even _thinking,_ doing something like that in the first place.

Drawing a blank in both respects, Hermione shook her head, mystified, and smiled tiredly at the Mediwitch standing to her right. "I think I should go, then, Madam L. Thanks, though. Have a good day!"

Still wrapped up in her thoughts, still shaking her curly head, she absently strode off. By the time she had reached the Infirmary door, she was too far away from Madam L to hear the Mediwitch murmur to herself, "Well, there goes the answer to all my questions…"

**8:09 P.M.**

Tom Riddle woke from his sleeping draught at exactly 8:07 P.M.

Hermione knew this because she had finally managed to throw together some kind of goodwill packaged for Riddle and set it on his bedside table by 8:06 P.M., and she had nearly jumped out of her skin when the dark-haired boy heaved a deep sigh and rolled over. She had managed to flee to safety behind the Infirmary/ Private Sick Room floor-to-ceiling cloth divide. Unfortunately, she had not made it to the safety of the Hospital Wing door and the freedom of the corridor.

Resignedly, she settled on waiting for Madam L to make an appearance, and, in the distraction, she would make a stealthy exit. Wishing that she had remembered to borrow Harry's invisibility cloak, Hermione silently pulled out a chair from beside one of the beds and yawned, sitting down to pass the time behind her curtained cover. As Madam L hustled out of her office and made her way over to Riddle's bed, however, Hermione just couldn't help but be drawn to the crack in the material.

Now was her chance, her chance to make a run for it. _Go, Hermione, go,_ her mind urged…

But she didn't.

Instead, she watched, her curiosity rendering her immobile, as Riddle slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, and Madam L began to fuss over him—much to his irritation, Hermione could tell. Finally, Madam L seemed to be satisfied with her miniature check-up. "And how are you feeling, Mr. Riddle?" she asked briskly.

"Like I could take on a herd of hippogriffs single-handedly and win," Riddle said tonelessly, his face bored, already pulling away the covers from his bed. "Can I go, please?"

"You most certainly can_not; _get back in that bed!" Madam L exclaimed, for the first time strongly reminding Hermione of Madam Pompfrey. She waved her wand at Riddle indignantly and firmly pushed him back into the bed despite his considerable height advantage over her, returning the covers to their original position. "I will not allow you to leave this Hospital Wing until I observe you for at least one more day, so don't you even think about it, laddie!"

As soon as Madam L turned to check up on the still-unconscious Draco - Hermione couldn't help but smirk; whatever smoking potion Madam L was giving to her patients was certainly potent stuff - Riddle scowled at the woman's back, visibly annoyed. It was then that he noticed the card and wrapped package on his bedside table.

Without even glancing at them closely, Riddle reached over and snatched up the two rectangles, one paper thin and lightweight, one wide and heavy. "Excuse me, Madam Lamberdeau?"

_Oh, how polite he becomes._

From her place at the foot of Draco's bed, the Mediwitch turned expectantly, and Riddle held the card and present out to her. A small smirk had edged its way onto his face as he glanced toward Draco' bed. "I think someone got their deliveries mixed up," he noted indifferently, almost mockingly. He tilted his head toward the blond Slytherin's wall of worship. "Somehow missed the big pile next to du Lac."

But Madam L squinted at the package and shook her head. "Oh, no, laddie," she said with only the slightest of smiles. She expertly checked the sleeping Draco's stats, hung his chart off the side of his bed, and headed back to her side office. "Those are for you."

For about a minute after she disappeared, Riddle stared at the spot near Draco's bed where Madam L had last been standing, the smirk gradually fading from his face. Slowly, he lowered the card and package onto his bed, and his grey eyes flickered down to read the name on the envelope.

Hermione had debated furiously on how to address the card. She had considered her four options: _Tom Riddle, Riddle, Tom,_ and _Lord Voldemort._ Option Number Four wouldn't have gone over too well for obvious reasons, and for some reason, Hermione was becoming slightly, _slightly_ irritated with her friends whenever they constantly referred to Tom Riddle as Voldemort. It just… Well, she didn't know, exactly, but it just didn't seem right, somehow.

Anyway, using _Tom Riddle _would have sounded ridiculously anal; who called people by their first _and_ last name in a get-well card? So it was either Tom or Riddle. She hadn't the slightest idea why she even thought that the name was such a big deal; after all, a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet or sour and la-dee-da-da…

Out of politeness, she chose to write _Tom_.

Riddle silently read his name, turned the envelope over in his hands, and opened the flap, pulling out the card. Hermione hated to pry—or, more appropriately,_ spy_— but her curiosity at his reaction was boiling over. When Riddle saw the cover, his eyebrows shot up, and Hermione almost laughed, then almost punched herself for almost blowing _her_ cover.

The card was ridiculous, she knew. Not ridiculously bad, just ridiculously cute for a recipient like the Heir of Slytherin. After looking in her trunk and finding that she had irresponsibly overlooked packing get-well cards for possible future dark lords who had been cursed by their mother, Hermione had been forced to raid the Ravenclaw common room. After a good hour of searching and a few tense moments, she had finally found a fourth year who was staying in close owl contact with her sick Muggle cousin back home.

The get-well card had, ironically, cost her a ten-inch scroll on the pros and cons of time travel.

Hermione had to admit, the card was even too fluffy for _her_ taste, but it was all she could find to work with in such a short amount of time. So the front page of the card showed a black Labrador retriever and a fluffy white cat. The dog sported a bandage that had been wrapped haphazardly around its paw, the cat was curled up beside the dog, and they both looked pretty content.

Symbolic, the card was not.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Riddle flipped open the cover.

Hermione knew the first words he had to see were: '_From a friend—GET WELL SOON,' _because, well, they had already been scrawled across most of the page. For the personal message, though, she had decided to go with light humour, and underneath, she had scripted in her own handwriting:

'_Because if you don't get well soon then I would have no one to argue with and I might have to murder you for abandoning me to carry the weight of this entire school on my poor little back unless the responsibility of it all drives me to insanity before I get the chance… so don't you dare stay in that bed much longer!'_

She smirked, remembering her run-on message, and, in his bed, Riddle mirrored her expression. Then he squinted at the last line and frowned.

This time, Hermione smiled.

'_P.S. Keep it. –Hermione'_

Still seeming a bit confused, Riddle set the card back down on the bed and lifted the brightly decorated package, wrapped in alternating shades of shiny forest green and silver paper. It looked very Slytherin, if Hermione did say so herself.

_Oh, please, _she thought as Riddle flipped the package over and onto its back, _you **have** to guess what it is! There is only **one** thing that can be **that** square, **that** compact, and **that** heavy!_ To her chagrin, he found the paper's seam and carefully slid his finger along it, as if he didn't want to tear the wrapping paper. People like that drove her _mad._ _Come **on,**_ she wanted to scream, _Just **rip** it open!_

Of course, being true to his meticulous self, he didn't, but he successfully managed to cleanly split the seam. He pulled the paper away, revealing the back of a very old, worn, and dusty book. His expression surprisingly curious — surprising because he was actually _showing_ emotion — Riddle turned the aged book over and read the cover.

Hermione watched in shock as, for the very first time since she had met him, a faint, hesitant but genuine smile reached the Heir of Slytherin's face. The edges of his grey eyes crinkled slightly, his pale face gained some healthy colouring…

And, for a single moment, as he held The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in his hands, Tom Riddle looked happy.


	18. Have You Ever Been Given Another's Life

_Hermione watched in shock as, for the very first time since she had met him, a faint, hesitant but genuine smile reached the Heir of Slytherin's face. The edges of his grey eyes crinkled slightly, his pale face gained some healthy colouring…_

_And, for a single moment, as he held The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in his hands, Tom Riddle looked happy._

**Chapter 18: A Twisted Kind of Fairy Tale**

Thursday, December 2, 1944

2:59 P.M.

Hermione had forgotten Dark Arts Curses, A Description of on the bookshelf in her room.

Ravenclaw had booked the Quidditch pitch that afternoon, so Harry, Ginny, Lavender, Ron, and Draco (who had fully recovered from his broken arm with the aid of Madam L, whom he had dubbed 'Bloody Mary') had agreed to help her search for more information on the elusive Anima spell.

It might have been nothing, but, then again, it might have everything to do with the discrepancies that had begun popping up all over the given timeline.

Muttering "Stuffed Pepperjacks," to Sir Cadogan, she didn't bother to waste time chitchatting with the knight _or_ to look for Tom Riddle, as the latter had missed every day of classes since Monday. Once again, Hermione couldn't understand his absence. When Riddle had opened her gift on Sunday night, he had seemed to be fully recovered.

She had mentally run through every hypothetical curse that Riddle could have, given the additional information Dumbledore had let her read before she had come back in time, and she had crossed each one off with an obnoxious X, as they all appeared to be blatantly incorrect.

_Yeah, right, who'm I trying to fool?_ she mused as she energetically took the stairs up to her room two at a time. Nothing here was _ever_ simple. She wasn't that lucky. Everything, every appearance was continually turning out to be completely deceiving.

Deftly weaving her way through her bedroom, past her professionally organized desk, her Ravenclaw spread, double bed, and all the way to the farthest, floor-to-ceiling bookcase, Hermione grabbed the aged book off the shelf exactly where she had left it—

And saw, unmistakably placed in the dead centre of her coffee table, a small piece of yellowed parchment.

Parchment that looked remarkably familiar.

This time, though, she picked up the paper without any fear of hexes, or any suspicion, for that matter. Curiously, she flipped it over, shocked to see more than one line of writing. As she read the elegantly scripted words, her surprised eyes widened, and her curiosity turned to absolute astonishment.

_Ne_ (here the beginning of an 'f' was written, but the ink only made it a third of the way down the line before its author scratched it out and changed directions)

_Hermione-_

_Sometimes I do do formalities._

_Thank you._

_Tom_

Hermione blinked and quickly re-read the writing to make sure she hadn't made some kind of mistake. And re-read it again. And again. She needed about two minutes to fully absorb the true nature of Riddle's words. It was a Thank You card, she thought in numbed disbelief. Granted, the simplest kind imaginable, but a Thank You card nonetheless.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Heir of Slytherin and quite possibly the future Dark Lord… had written her a Thank You card.

Hermione's hand dropped to her side, limply holding the scrap of parchment, and her eyes darted around her bright, sunny bedroom, wondering when Riddle had brought the note; if he was still there, even… Somewhere…

And, with a start, she realized that she and Tom Riddle were on a completely different level than they had been when they had first met so many months ago.

**3:10 P.M.**

"We're nearly halfway through the year, and we haven't got anything to work with yet?" Harry was asking impatiently, parked on his usual Slytherin sofa with a sleeping Ginny as Hermione briskly strolled into the Room of Requirements. The messy-haired eighteen-year-old nodded at the brunette, smiling his greeting, as she placed the retrieved Dark Arts book on the coffee table between the sofas.

"I wouldn't say that, exactly," Hermione responded thoughtfully, immediately jumping into the conversation. She sat down on the edge of the Ravenclaw couch, unzipped her bulging book bag, and unloaded at least six more dusty, leather bound books. "I think we have a lot to work with, but we just haven't figured out how to work with it yet."

"Hey, Hermy, enjoying your time without Voldy?" Lavender greeted cheerfully. Hermione nearly winced at the harsh grate of the name. Oblivious, the blond-streaked brunette promptly picked up An Ancient Dark Arts Summary and began leafing through it. "Where'd you dig these oldies up from? Under the dungeons?"

"Erm, from the other half of the Dumbledore Ancestral Library bookcases, I finally got the chance to un-shrink them last night…"

Hermione passed Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Draco some rather dodgy books on the Dark Arts before _scooching_ farther back on the couch and reclining against a large, fluffy blue and bronze pillow. "Anyway, a lot of things are happening that definitely weren't supposed to happen. I mean, I don't get it. I don't. Tom Riddle's 'curse'— which is in no way mentioned in any of Dumbledore's information, by the way — left him in the Hospital Wing for almost a week.

"That's _seven_ days," she intoned forcefully to drive her point. "All the professors, including this Dumbledore, seem to know about the curse, but they're being very hush-hush about it, if you know what I mean. Everyone, this is a big deal. Even Madam L was concerned. Had this happened to Riddle the first time around, Dumbledore would have definitely told us," she finished, a note of certainly ringing in the termination of her speech.

"So Voldy had the curse in him the entire time he was Lord Voldemort, but, for some reason, it never took effect?" Ron asked. A second later, he frowned and shook his head, as if answering his own question, and muttered, "Bugger."

"Ron," Hermione said out of the blue, vaguely wondering how to phrase her next statement.

"Hmmmm?" the lanky redhead asked distantly, breaking out of his deep, meditative thoughts. He yawned, wrapped his arm amicably around Lavender, and glanced at Hermione.

"It seems to me that it'd be far less confusing if we _all_ called the 1940s version of Lord Voldemort Tom Riddle," she said carefully, disinterestedly pretending to be completely engrossed with the random book page she had opened to.

"Yeah, that little inconsistency has left me scratching my head a few times," Ginny piped in, cracking her sleeping eyes open an inch from her perch on Harry's lap. "Let me tell you, it's shaken me up quite a bit, too. There were times when you said it, and I thought old Snake Eyes himself had somehow followed us back. We need some kind of uniform name system, like we should stick to Tom Riddle for this 1944 version of Voldemort and Voldemort for our version of Voldemort."

"Errrm… All right." It was difficult to see the befuddlement in Ron's expression, but Hermione knew it was there, heard the confusion in his voice as if he couldn't imagine why the name would even matter when they were so obviously the same person.

_So obviously,_ her mind echoed with the slightest tinge of doubt.

"That's not all," Harry broke in arbitrarily, his voice disturbingly sombre, an unusually wary gleam in his green eyes. She had learned to dread the words that always inevitably followed that tone of voice.

_Wonderful._

Hermione inquisitively looked across the gulf between sofas at the Boy-Who-Lived, the Amulet of Eras beginning to feel hot, scratchy, and sticky under her robes. The unconcealed, guilty expression on Harry's face did nothing to ease her fears. "Harry… What is it?" she asked warily.

"Mione." He shifted uncomfortably, meeting the Head Girl's apprehensive gaze, and carefully, picking over his every word, slowly began, "Remember when, back at the beginning of school, I told you how Calugala Malfoy approached me with an invitation to come to some Dark meetings?"

When she nodded warily, Harry continued, a bit more confidently, "Well, about a month and a half ago, right before Halloween, he talked to me again. He said the same Dark followers were going to have their first official meeting, and that they had come up with a name for themselves… Death Eaters." Before she could interrupt, as she seemed ready to, he quickly finished, "And… I took him up on his original offer."

Hermione's blood chilled, her entire back stiffening rigidly. She had figured that one of their number might be subjected to spy work, but, even so, she had never expected it to happen so… suddenly.

Bizarrely, she didn't feel fear, or even anger, at Harry's revelation, but rather…disappointment. So it had begun. Right here, right under her nose, Tom Riddle had already taken the first steps on his journey to the Dark. He had to do it sometime, she knew, but she had thought, she had _hoped_ that…

Well, what she had hoped didn't matter much anymore. It had been foolish thinking, anyway. Closing her eyes briefly, she tiredly rubbed her temples with her fingertips. "And Riddle led it, I assume."

"Well, that's the thing," Harry said, visibly sighing in relief at her relatively receptive reaction. Throwing aside all padding, he dove right in to the juicier section of his report. "When Malfoy said 'secret meetings,' he meant it. Twenty-five people come, counting me, and we're all required to wear hooded cloaks. I can't tell women from men, Mione," he said frankly, shaking his head, and continuing.

"Malfoy was clearly second in command, I could recognize his voice anywhere, and I thought I heard Lestrange's voice somewhere in the crowd at more than a few meetings, but I have no concrete evidence on the leader's identity." He paused, raking a hand through his wild hair. "I could identify Riddle's accent in a heartbeat, but this guy, Riddle or not, put a Muffler charm on his voice."

For some reason, though she had no idea what it was, this information sent a small whisper of reassurance through her, and she felt herself relaxing considerably... until she realized her motivation, and snorted. _Oh, come **on,** Hermione, of course the leader has to be Riddle! Who else would it be?_ "Isn't there some other way you can find out?" she asked keenly.

Harry's dark brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Not that I can see. Well, not yet, anyway. The only things I can tell you for sure are that he's a real Muggle-hater, he's extremely well-spoken and charismatic, and he knows his stuff. Plus, we haven't had any meetings since Riddle's been in the Hospital Wing. Four undeniable facts which point directly toward Riddle, Mione. _Directly_."

_Bugger, he's right- No, **of course** he's right._ Had she really thought that they would be able to go through with their mission without a fight?

Sighing heavily, she glanced around the room, curious at her friends' reaction to Harry's analysis. To her astonishment, none of them —not even _Lavender_— appeared surprised, disturbed, _or_ more informed.

Ron was yawning again, twisting around in his seat to see the hands on the clock and whispering to Lavender how he was going to pass out of starvation if he didn't get food soon; Lavender, filing her nails, was repeatedly nodding in a way that said she wasn't really paying attention to her moaning boyfriend; Ginny had once again fallen asleep against Harry's left arm; and Draco was interestedly nosing through Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms.

"Wait a second," Hermione said slowly, snapping a sharp gaze back on Harry. "Am _I_ the only one here who doesn't know about this?"

Harry uneasily shifted under her piercing stare. "Mione, we… we all felt that… Well, since you were the one mostly dealing with Riddle, we thought it might be best if you didn't know about this—"

_Oh my God! They all know, and they've been deliberately keeping it from me!_ "Best for whom, Harry?" she demanded hotly. "You? Me? _Riddle?"_ She stopped abruptly and sucked in an explosive breath, holding it, trying her damnedest to sort out this new revelation while Harry cringed at her reaction. At his swift recoil, she felt some of her anger ebb slightly. Harry had heroically fought Voldemort, Death Eaters, and Dementors, but he couldn't take it when his friends were upset. More specifically, he couldn't take it when his friends were upset with _him._

Taking in a much calmer breath, she subsequently blew out the lungful of air. "Listen… Harry, I'm sorry for snapping at you, but we can't keep secrets from each other," she said apologetically, shaking her head. "Not now. If we want to survive this thing and successfully finish what we came here to finish, we can't afford to hold anything back - _Nothing._ You should know more than anyone how secret-keeping can backfire on you."

Harry's green eyes darkened, undoubtedly recalling every vital piece of information Dumbledore had kept from him during his years at Hogwarts, and how that had ultimately culminated in Sirius' death. Careful not to disturb Ginny, he reached up, removed his glasses, and rubbed his tired eyes, his expression apologetic. "Mione... I'm sorry, too. It… It was stupid of me, but I'll admit it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"It's okay." She smiled weakly and absently set Dark Arts Curses, A Description of, on the coffee table. She picked up another book but hardly glanced at the cover. "I know now, and that's all that matters."

To her right, she heard Draco make a sound akin to vomiting, and he held up his particular book and showcased it in example. "That's so sweet, you two, it _really is,_ but now that we're one big, happy family again, can we continue the vital discussion at hand?"

Hermione snorted and dropped the dusty book to her lap, crossing her arms. "And what about you, Draco? I'd have thought you'd have been good at blending in at the original Death Eater conventions."

Faster than she had ever seen him react, his features suddenly darkened. "Nef, that one was low," he snapped in a soft, uncharacteristically irate voice. "No, I didn't go. You know I worked too hard to pull out of that sort of thing three years ago."

Hermione was completely taken aback by his defensive reaction... had he somehow thought that she had gone back to categorizing him under 'No Good' simply because he was a Death Eater's son? "I'm not accusing you," she said quietly.

The blond didn't reply for several seconds, and then he glanced down at Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms. "Let's just keep going, Nef, all ri—All right," he abruptly purred, his tone changing instantly. He did a double-take at the page and then tapped his book triumphantly, a smile breaking out onto his face. "All right!"

"What? You _found_ it?" she demanded disbelievingly, vaguely relieved that whatever had temporarily come between them had passed as she lunged across the length of the sofa in a flash, swiftly leaning over Draco's shoulder.

The Slytherin, however, deviously snatched the book from her line of sight. "Wait… wait… Let me revel…"

"Good Merlin, du Lac, _stop_ it and come on!" Hermione exclaimed, on the verge of screaming in anticipation. She had been searching for the Anima spell for weeks, _weeks,_ and now, here were all the answers, so close… yet so far away, she thought forlornly as she stared balefully at the ancient, yellowed pages of parchment less than six feet away from her, held out in Draco's outstretched arm.

It killed her to beg, but…

"_Pleaaase?"_ she bleated piteously, nudging her right cheek up against Draco's left one and fluttering her long lashes, all the while wrapping her right arm around his shoulder and reaching for the book, her muscles screaming in protest.

Nope, her arm just wasn't that long.

"And all of a sudden, she loves me," he muttered, pulling the book back to his lap before Hermione could smash him into the couch. "All right, Nef, let me breathe… Okay."

He flipped Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms open to the marked page and started to read aloud. "Anima Adflictatio, literally, s_oul pain,_ is one of the most archaic and advanced of the forty-three fatal Dark Arts curses. Over time, the Anima curse has become increasingly obsolete, in part because the power to administer and remove the curse is only possible by the magic of a member of one of the ancient magical bloodlines. As Muggle and Magical interaction increases, less and less witches and wizards will have the inherent ability to perform the dying art of Dark Magick."

"Well, that explains how dear mummy put it on him in the first place; she was a Slytherin—literally," Ron commented offhandedly. He permanently abandoned his research book - which had somehow turned into a Quidditch handbook - and rubbed his hands together expectantly. "What does it say? Can it kill him?"

For some reason, a knot was beginning to take form in the pit of Hermione's stomach. "Obviously it can't, Ron, because Riddle had to have had it the last time, and Lord Voldemort was still going strong when we left our time…"

"No, no, wait…" Draco held up a finger, his eyes scanning the page. "TheAnima curse is performed… blah blah blah… Here it is: only becoming physically hindering, and, in most cases, fatal, when the Afflicted…"

Draco trailed off, squinting at the writing. "When the Afflicted…"

Hermione glanced sharply at the blond Slytherin, but he was staring at the page in what could have passed as semi-shock, a slow, incredulous but sly smile spreading across his face. "When the Afflicted _what?"_ she warily asked, her voice guardedly tight.

The smile having already grown to a full-fledged smirk, Draco held up the book and continued arrogantly, "The curse will remain dormant, only becoming physically hindering, and, in most cases, fatal, when the Afflicted's feelings for another deepen beyond the superficial."

Still smirking, he snapped the book shut, his finger marking his place. "Translate that one into English."

"So, in other words, when he begins to care… about… someone else," Hermione mused slowly, composedly. Her mind, however, was whirling with a thousand confused thoughts, each swirling like a whirlwind of different colours in her head.

"I suppose that explains why Riddle distances himself — that way, he doesn't even run the _risk_ of getting close to anyone," she noted after a beat, pausing. She decided to ask the question that had plagued her mind for weeks. "But why is the curse taking effect this time? What's so different? Why didn't it happen the _last_ time?"

Ginny and Lavender stealthily exchanged shrewd glances.

"Let's go through this, shall we?" Draco drawled out in the unhurried, teasing manner of one who knows something his neighbour clearly doesn't but would love to find out. He opened the book back to theAnima Curse's page and folded his hands thoughtfully, his slightly amused blue eyes making contact with her perplexed brown ones. "Of the times Riddle's gotten… hit with this curse, I suppose you could say, have you noticed anything… Odd? Similar, even?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, absently staring into the flickering orange and gold fire. "The first time I saw it happen was at the Friday Night Dance that he found out about—where you two saw him," she added, nodding at Ron and Harry. Her mind easily flew back the three weeks.

"I… I ran into him—literally—and, you know, said hello. Of, course, I wasn't going to stick around and make small talk, and I was about to leave when he just… doubled over. _Doubled_ over. I mean, whatever it was, it was really bad, but it only lasted a few minutes."

"_Well, since you actually decided to show up, I honestly do hope you have a good time."_

_The haughty expression of superiority slightly faded from Riddle's face. **"What?"**_

…_."Do you need me to get Madam Lamberdeau?" she asked tightly._

_Riddle's grey eyes burned into hers, but in the darkness, they were even more impossible to read than usual. Hermione could only watch helplessly, completely clueless, as he began to shake his head in a **No**, but abruptly sucked in a another sharp breath, his face contorting into a mask of pain as he yanked his arm more tightly around his waist…_

_..…."Are you going to tell me what just happened to you?" Hermione demanded, crossing her arms expectantly._

"_No," he said shortly._

"Erm… the second time was on the day of your glorious Quidditch match, Draco. We had a prefect meeting that afternoon, and Riddle seemed completely fine…" She frowned. "When we had finished the meeting, I said… oh, I don't remember exactly, but it caused him to tell me that he was going to lunch, and, you know, we _never_ see him in the Great Hall. _I_ thought it'd be a good opportunity to find out where he goes, so… I told him I was hungry, too, and asked if I could come—and I did… He's got this whole little corner in the kitchens…"

"_This must go over well," Hermione noted wryly, studying the checkered tablecloth spread over the square, compact table tucked away in a small nook near the massive kitchen fireplace. Hardly perceptible unless you knew where to look, the space seemed big enough for two people, tops._

_Riddle indifferently glanced over at her. "Go over well with who?"_

_Two plates, glasses, and silverware magically appeared before them, and Hermione shrugged. "With whoever you bring down here."_

_Riddle gave her that piercing, unreadable stormy grey stare, and he said in an equally unreadable voice that was enough to send chills down her spine, "I never bring anyone down here."_

"…but the next day, you know the story, he was in the Hospital Wing. That night, he seemed ready to escape out the window, but the next morning, Madam L told me that he had suffered a relapse."

"Mione," Harry interrupted, raising an eyebrow at Draco. He seemed to be following the blond's line of thought, but whatever line of thought that might have been was currently, tauntingly floating just out of Hermione's grasp. "You might not know this, but did Madam L mention if anything out of the ordinary happened, anything that could have set off Riddle's relapse?"

Hermione frowned. "Well, no." She hesitated, then said a bit more quickly, "I _did_ send him a card and an old book that I didn't really need anymore, but I don't see how—"

"You _what?"_ Lavender demanded incredulously, dropping her nail file, her blue eyes staring at Hermione, lashes wide open, as if the latter had just confessed to committing a mortal sin.

"It seemed like the nice thing to do!" Hermione replied defensively, defiantly crossing her arms.

"Nef, Nef, _Nef,"_ Draco rudely interjected, waving Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms above his head importantly. "Do you realize what this means?"

Hermione suspiciously eyed the scheming blond, not exactly wanting to hear whatever he was about to say. "No, but I'm sure you'll enlighten me," she said dryly.

"Nef," he whispered, that completely delighted smirk spreading across his face again, coming off like the Grinch who had just been told that Christmas had been cancelled, "All you have to do is make Riddle fall in _love_ with you, and all of our problems in this blasted world will be completely, absolutely solved!"

"Draco!" she gasped. Her heart stopped, and her mouth fell open for about the fiftieth time that week, her left hand reaching out and clutching the object nearest her — the poofy Ravenclaw pillow. "You… you don't think that it's - it's _me_ who he… You're not serious!"

"Nef, he's the bloody Head _Boy,_ and you're the bleedin' Head _Girl!"_ Draco exclaimed with a knowing flourish of his hands. "Those are the classic get-together posts! Open up your eyes! You share a common room with just him, for Merlin's sake! You always have Head business together, and you were always the last or _one_ of the last people he was thinking of in some way before the curse jumped up and bit him in the arse. Please, if there's a better candidate for someone he would care about enough for the curse to take effect, feel free to point her out."

"And that _would_ explain why it never happened the last time," Lavender piped in with a knowing nod, calculatingly waving her finger at Hermione.

"Yeah." Ron, like his girlfriend beside him, was nodding at Hermione, too. "The last time around, he never had you!"

A sudden chill trickled down Hermione's spine, and Dumbledore's parting words seconds before she left, moments after she had discovered that no change had occurred in Harry, Ginny, Ron, Lavender, and Draco's absence, echoed hauntingly in her mind:

"_Headmaster," Hermione began, her voice excited, "if Harry, Ron, Draco, Ginny, and Lavender have technically been in the past for fifty years now, wouldn't things here be different already? Wouldn't Voldemort and all the Dark Forces have been erased by now? Turned to dust?"_

_Dumbledore nudged his head toward the small corner window. "Nothing looks different, does it, Ms. Nefertari?"_

"_You mean, it didn't work?" After all this insanity, this extreme preparation, and it **didn't work?** That's it. Hope had died._

_Dumbledore smiled tiredly and slowly rose to his feet. "Perhaps they just need you, Ms. Nefertari."_

Dear Merlin, did the fate of the future of the entire magical world —or at least one life— lie _completely_ in her hands?

"Wait a minute, _all_ of you," she said loudly, quickly. She held up her hands, her rational side desperately trying to rein in the situation before it spiralled dangerously out of control. "Let's not jump to conclusions. We don't know if the AnimaCurse is what Riddle really has."

"Nef, when you touched the Heir of Slytherin, you had an actual, honest-to-goodness vision, and it only involved two words," Draco drawled knowingly. "Do you really think the gods would waste their time giving a vision to you, the ultimate Anti-Divinationess, unless that vision had to do with everything?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and retorted witheringly, "And how do you suggest I go about 'making him fall in love with me,' if your positively _mad_ idea is actually true, as you seem to think it is—No, I take it back, don't answer that," she quickly amended as crafty grins immediately spread across the faces of both Draco and Ron.

"Bugger, you sick men," Ginny groaned, surreptitiously examining Harry's sober face to make sure that her boyfriend wasn't sharing the same line of thought as her brother and the ferret. Sufficiently satisfied, the redhead turned to Hermione seriously. "What do you think, Hermione?"

By now, Hermione's irritation with Draco had caused her to tumble off the edge of her seat. From her new spot on the ground, wedged between the Ravenclaw sofa and the coffee table, the brunette shrugged helplessly, the frustration of her mind emerging in her voice. "Well, I don't know, Ginny; I just found out that the boy who would become one of the most evil Dark Lords in the last five hundred years fancies me enough to make him physically ill! What would _you_ think?"

The moment the words left her mouth, the insanity of the entire situation finally sank in. After all of her and Riddle's explosive arguments, the utter _lack_ of love in their relationship—

_No._ No, this was wrong, this was all wrong. This couldn't be right. Tom Riddle didn't have emotions. He didn't feel. He didn't care about anything or anyone but himself, that fact was plainly obvious in everything he did, in every word he said.

He didn't.

He _couldn't._

This was ridiculous.

"I would think," Ginny startled slowly, and Hermione was absolutely floored at the abrupt change in the redhead's tone — now so brutal, so dark, so full of utter hate. Had Ginny always had all of those emotions bottled up inside her, waiting to explode?

The afternoon was quickly plummeting out of control.

"I would think, 'Thank you Merlin, _thank_ you for finally giving us a way of successfully… successfully _executing_ what we came here to execute" —Hermione almost flinched at Ginny's ruthless choice of wording— "without ending up in Azkaban.' I would be grateful that the gods gave us such a simple way to save our family, our friends, and our future."

_**'A simple way.'** For who, Ginny? _

Ginny paused and licked her cherry-red lips. "And then, I would jump on this chance before it gets away."

"Gin, let's not discuss this as if we're actually thinking of doing it!" Harry suddenly cut in, his voice low, urgent, his dark eyes resolute. Inexplicably, a surge of relief, cool and peaceful, swept through Hermione's body so strongly, she could almost feel her hair blowing in its breeze.

She did have a choice, after all. She didn't _have_ to participate in this cockamamie plan.

"Hermione has to spend enough time with Riddle as it is," Harry continued, jabbing a finger at Hermione, his Quidditch-swept dark hair even more unruly than usual, giving him a peculiarly Einstein-like appearance. "You can't — Mione, I won't let you try to get any closer to him than you already are. You know what Riddle's capable of; you know what he could do to you if he ever found out you were playing him—"

"Cool it, wonderboy;" Draco abruptly snapped, entering the fray for the first time since he had discovered the AnimaCurse information. His gazed pointedly shifted to Hermione. "Why don't you let _her_ decide?"

Harry's features instantly darkened, and Hermione could actually see the fire of the old enmity he had always held toward Draco again rising in his dangerously narrowed green eyes. Without hesitation, without fear, The Boy Who Lived sharply turned his gaze on the blond Slytherin_. "What_ did you say to me?"

This sudden show of animosity didn't deter Draco in the least; rather, it seemed to encourage him. Unconcernedly leaning forward in his seat, the blond tilted his head at Harry, unceremoniously but pointedly drawing his supple mahogany wand from his side pocket and laying it on the sofa next to him.

"Evans, I may not be going undercover at the original Death Eater meetings, but I've seen my share of Riddle, I've seen my share of good and bad, and I've seen that rock around Nefertari's neck. I think Nef is perfectly capable of protecting herself. Anyway," he continued, the smirk vanishing from his face, "if this opportunity hadn't arisen, who would have taken the fall and gone to Azkaban for murdering Riddle— because it would have eventually come to that, I can assure you. You Evans?"

Her mouth slightly agape, Hermione's gaze travelled back and forth, back and forth between Harry and Draco as the squabble bounced between the two boys like a ping pong ball, unsure of whether to treat Draco's words as a compliment or not. As if to block out Draco, Harry turned his gaze to her. "Mione, you don't have to do this," he repeated urgently.

"Evans, I understand that you've fought the Dark Lord on numerous planes, but let's be realistic," Draco returned just as forcefully before Hermione could put in a word edgewise. "This is a different world. If this is our best chance of taking out Riddle, we need to pursue it."

After eying Hermione for a split second, a torn, indecisive expression on his face, Harry twisted out edgily, "Whatever you say, du Lac. After all, it looks like _you're_ the hero now—"

Hermione snapped. Snatching up a book, she slammed it back down on the coffee table with a loud _BANG._ "STOP it_, both_ of you!" she shouted breathlessly. _Bloody hell, are you **five?**_

From the Slytherin couth, Harry's mouth snapped shut; Draco shut up; Ginny, now fully awake, gaped at Hermione, wide-eyed; Lavender had leapt into Ron's lap, her arms around his neck.

_I have a choice._

The silence in the room, save the occasional crackling of the fireplace, was smothering. Suffocating. Hermione fought to breathe. Vaguely surprised the book hadn't disintegrated into dust when it had hit the table, her hand released the age-old manuscript and fell limply to her side.

_Somebody say **something!**_

Draco did. "Nef," he began seriously, his voice quieter, more reassuring than it had been moments before. "If you do this… You don't have to be afraid about it, you know. All of us —_every_ single one of us in this room— would gladly kill that bastard before he ever _touched_ you."

The chill down her spine spread like a wildfire throughout her entire body at the lethal matter-of-factness in his voice.

All six of the time travellers had seen war.

None of them —including her, she had to admit guiltily— would hesitate to kill, if killing was the ultimate option, the last and only resort.

But how many more needed to die before peace could finally be achieved?

"Mione, as much as I hate to say it, du Lac's right," Ron said cautiously, as serious yet hopeful as Hermione had ever seen him. The redhead steadily avoided Harry's piercing glare and determinedly persisted, "If Vold—Riddle really does fancy you… Mione, all you have to do is keep doing whatever you're doing and—"

Ron gave a thumbs-down and blew a raspberry, the obnoxious sound causing Hermione to jump and Lavender to draw back from her boyfriend and slap him upside the head. "Lav, _ow_ — This'll all be over. None of the medics, the officials, no one could ever pin the blame on you. The fault would lie solely with the curse; Riddle and Lord Voldemort, however you want to look at it, would be gone, and we'd all be able to just get on with our lives."

_I still have a choice._

Hermione stared blankly into the fireplace, not thinking at all, not knowing _what_ to think. Her mind, the mind that she had always taken so much pride in, now felt like it had turned to pure mush. She still couldn't believe that this afternoon had been real. Finally, without twisting around, she reached up over her shoulder and moved her hand in a giant pincer-like motion. "Let me see what else it says."

Draco wordlessly handed her Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms, and she carefully lowered it to the floor. Her eyes snapped on the page before her with a clear, precise focus that assured her she still had some amount of her wits about her, and she vigilantly went over each word Draco had previously read. She had to clarify, for herself, that it was true.

Coming to a new sentence, she skimmed the verbose terminology and paraphrased it. "All right, there's a bit more; here it is: 'The duration of a typical Anima Curse until death is inflicted depends on the reception of the Secondary'… 'The Secondary,' um, the person he cared about… That means…" The bottom fell out of her stomach. "That means, how _I_ took it."

"So pretend to like him, but really keep on hating him," Ron added helpfully.

_I have a choice, I have a choice, I have a choice—_

"Thank you, Ronald," she snapped, unable to keep a trace of sarcasm from her voice. Her intelligent eyes further scanned the page.

"The curse has two stages, Reversible and Irreversible… erm… Basically, whenever the Afflicted — so, whenever Riddle— has feelings of… care, I suppose you could say, for a particular person — and I mean, _deep_ caring, not just the 'Oh, I think she's sort of cute' thing— the curse first causes some form of preliminary, sharp inner pain. The source of the pain isn't clear, but, apparently, the stronger the feelings, the more it hurts… At this point, though, the curse is still benign. It won't kill him."

"Bugger," Ron muttered again.

Opting to ignore the redhead's comment, Hermione flipped the tattered, worn page, her voice progressively growing softer with each sentence. "The moment the Afflicted's feelings of affection turn to those of pure, sincere, true love, the curse moves into the second stage. The Irreversible stage. The preliminary pain stops, and the curse instead turns to the Afflicted's energy supply, gradually leaving him weaker and weaker…"

Hermione's voice trailed off, and but her eyes continued to move horizontally across the lines, her mind somehow absorbing this load of rubbish. _The greater the strength of the Secondary's concern for the Afflicted, the longer the Afflicted will survive. And, although the curse steadily drains the Afflicted's energy, the secondary can restore a portion of that energy by simply making physical contact with the Afflicted—_

Hermione tore her eyes from the page, her head pounding, _throbbing,_ her heart racing, her mind muddled, her hands cold. She felt ill. She felt like _she,_ not Riddle, needed to spend a night in the Hospital Wing.

Shaking her head stubbornly, trying to clear the cobwebs from her brain, Hermione's latte gaze returned to the place in the middle of the page where she had left off. "Erm, like I said, it… it gradually leaves him weaker and weaker, until, eventually…" Hermione hesitated, blinking at the antiquated script in disbelief. "The Afflicted dies."

A pregnant pause filled the Room of Requirements. Finally, Ron said cheerfully, "Well, everyone always says that love hurts… Guess Riddle'll just have to find that out the hard way…"

Hermione turned her head toward him so quickly, her ponytail whipped around and smacked her left cheek. Ron trailed off, the smirk fading from his face, as she stared at him. "Ronald, he's going to _die,"_ she said sharply, vaguely wondering why she was speaking in Tom Riddle's defence. "At least _try_ to respect that."

"He's going to die?" Lavender asked, curling onto her knees and rocking back and forth interestedly. "For sure?"

Hermione shrugged. Her arms felt leaden, like dead-weights attached to her shoulders. She wondered why she wasn't as comfortable with this idea as she thought she'd be. "Well, the book doesn't mention a countercurse, Madam L did say it was difficult to treat, and…"

Hermione held up the crucial Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms. "It does say, once '_like'_ has evolved into '_love,'_ the curse has passed the point of no return. The only other way it can then progress is forward, and that means, the only thing left is…"

Her voice caught before the word _death_ could pass her lips.

"And you think he loves you?" Ron asked, hardly able to keep the delight from his voice.

"Oh, no." That afternoon had been one of completely wild revelations, but Hermione flat-out refused to believe _that._ "The only stage I imagine he could be at is 'like,' at best." Talking about this so objectively was not an experience she cared to repeat anytime soon. Yes, she knew this was Tom-Lord-Voldemort-Who-Killed-My-Parents-Riddle that they were dealing with, but…

He was still human. And he might very well be about to die a slow and painful death. And it might be all because of _her._ That was an emotion, a guilt, a completely eerie sensation that none of her friends could even _begin_ to comprehend… and Hermione understood that. She really did.

But, still… Here they were, sitting and casually planning the demise of Tom Riddle… _And we're supposed to be the good guys?_

_I do have a choice._

"I want his mother in my next life," Lavender said sarcastically, grinning impishly. "Hermy, it's a bit like a fairy tale, you know? The only difference is, instead of Riddle falling in love with you and living happily ever after, he dies."

_Once again, leave it to Lavender to sum the entire day up fantastically._

Hermione smiled half-heartedly, again staring out at the fireplace's dancing flames, and considered her options. She didn't have many, that was for sure. She felt like she was a spectator sitting in someone else's body. Yes, here she was, Hermione-Free-The-House-Elves-Granger, contemplating on how to most quickly kill a person who had gone on to murder her family, her friends, her friends' families… and with whom she had oddly spent a fair amount of time during the past few months.

The image of Riddle furiously staring at her the night of their massive fight, his eyes filled with anger, pre-eminence—and pain, now that she thought about it—entered her mind, and his scathing words rang in her ears.

"_Have you ever really been **hated,** Nefertari? **Have you?** Have you ever been **disowned** by your own bloody father? Have you ever been **cursed** by the woman who called herself your mother before you could hardly even read?"_

The memory was soon replaced with one of Riddle's confused but evident joy at her present, and the words of today's note that he had left on her coffee table floated through her mind.

Maybe, just maybe, Tom Riddle _did_ feel, after all.

…and Hermione made her choice.

"All right, listen up, because I'm only going to say this once," Hermione barked abruptly, jumping to her feet, Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms still in hand. She pointed, in turn, at Draco, Ron, Lavender, Harry, and Ginny. "I need _all_ of you to listen to me."

Ron tilted his head in Harry's direction and muttered, "Uh-oh, we must have said something right. The Drill Sergeant's back."

Hermione smiled impassively before her eyes grew serious, and she stared straight into the brilliant green eyes of her best friend. "If I go ahead with this, I'm going to do it my way. I don't want any of you, at any time, questioning my actions or my motives, nor do I want you interfering _in_ _any way _without my permission ahead of time." She paused, slightly breathless, wondering if she had missed anything.

She didn't think she had.

As she spoke her last three words, her voice was filled with the Head Girl authority she was completely used to exerting. _"Are we clear?"_

Lavender giggled, smiled saucily, tossed her sleek hair over her shoulder, and crisply saluted Hermione. "Crystal!"

Hermione nodded at Harry expectantly, and, for a good minute, his green, _'Mione, don't you do this'_ eyes bore into her chocolate, _'This is our only **real** chance, Harry'_ ones, neither of them blinking, neither of them giving an inch… until he sighed in acquiescence, raising his hands resignedly. "I know, I know. You can handle it. But Mione, I'll put it out on the table right now: I'm _not_ happy about this."

"I know, Harry. I do. I'm not exactly dancing in the aisles about it either." She sighed heavily and ran a hand through her curly tresses, taking deep, slow breaths in a futile attempt to even her racing heartbeat. Her eyes absently stared ahead at nothing at all. "Well, let's do this, then."


	19. Have You Ever Gone to Hogsmeade

**A/N:** **With the publication of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, this story is now DEFINITELY AU.** Just so you know. I'm so deep into the story that I can't really change it to fit book six. No howlers to me, please. Anyway, yeah, so I was flipping through Jo's new book, and it has a LOT of Tom Riddle in it, and some of the stuff happened that isn't happening in my story, and some of the Tom portrayed isn't the Tom in my story, so, as I've already said, this story is going to be AU… no Slughorn or whatever his name is.!

As to my story…. I KNOW there was a big uproar with the Anima curse, and I don't want to give away the ending… but let's just say that I don't like unhappy endings, I just like lots of twists. We all know Hermione should be falling in love with Tom because he isn't all that bad yet, but Hermy has to find that out on her own in her own good time… no matter how many problems it may cause for both Tom and her. Also, in canon, Tom killed his father after seventh year, but in my story, Tom did it when he was younger. And now…. On with the story!

_Hermione nodded at Harry expectantly, and, for a good minute, his green, **'Mione, don't you do this' **eyes bore into her chocolate, **'This is our only real chance, Harry' **ones, neither of them blinking, neither of them giving an inch… until he sighed in acquiescence, raising his hands resignedly. "I know, I know. You can handle it. But Mione, I'll put it out on the table right now: I'm not happy about this."_

"_I know, Harry. I do. I'm not exactly dancing in the aisles about it either." She sighed heavily and ran a hand through her curly tresses, taking deep, slow breaths in a futile attempt to even her racing heartbeat. Her eyes absently stared ahead at nothing at all. "Well, let's do this, then."_

**Chapter 19: Down in History**

Thursday, December 2, 1944

10:03 P.M.

Hermione yawned contentedly and stretched out, half-asleep, on her favourite leather sofa in the Head's common room. Half-asleep, she glanced again at the small, ticking grandfather clock on the wall, wondering where exactly Riddle could be so late at night on the day he had been released from the Hospital Wing.

Still, she was physically and emotionally exhausted from the past day's events, _exhausted._ As if pulled down by an unseen force, her eyelids drooped and closed…

A low, jarring scrape, and Hermione heard the portrait hole slide open. The subsequent, entering footsteps were a notch slower than their usual, brisk pace.

Riddle was back.

Unable to believe that she was actually going ahead with the day's madness, Hermione cautiously opened one bleary eye. From her half-obscured roost on the couch, she watched Tom Riddle tread into the common room. A stack of books were tucked under his left arm, and his shoulders were slumped slightly, rather than their normal rigidness, his face a tint more ashen.

Not even glancing toward the couch, Riddle headed toward the staircase to his room, completely oblivious to her presence. Hermione's stomach beginning to flip nervously, and she prayed something stupid wouldn't pop out of her mouth and give her away. _Say something **now,** Mione! Go! **GO!**_

"Hey!"

The word tumbled from her mouth before she could completely lose her nerve.

Immediately, Riddle stiffened; his feet glued to the floor, his long, dark robes swished to an abrupt stop around his feet. His free hand jumped halfway to his stomach, but he seemed to catch himself before it could make it, and he slowly lowered the hand back to his side, casually sticking it into his pocket.

"How are you?" she continued quickly before Riddle had a chance to say anything. She turned around on the couch and sat up fully, trying not to smirk at how expertly well Riddle had covered up his hand slip.

The dark-haired Heir of Slytherin stared at her expressionlessly, but he shifted the few books out from under his left arm and balanced them in front of him. Hermione noticed that The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders was among them. "I'm doing all right," he said in a low, slightly hoarse voice.

Steadily meeting his stormy gaze, Hermione hoped that her resolute stare gave away nothing of the apprehension she was feeling inside. "You didn't look all right," she pointed out with a frown.

Riddle seemed to realize that she was referring to that Sunday in the Hospital Wing… the day he knew she had to have seen him there, in order to have given him the gift. "I wasn't all right then."

Hermione nodded to herself, accepting his response for the moment. "Does Madam L know what's wrong with you?" she inquired innocently, wanting to at least sound half-interested, but _not_ wanting to come off like she knew exactly what was going on with him. Which, for the most part, she did.

"Madam Lamberdeau is searching for a treatment as we speak," Riddle said monotonously. He heaved an enormous sigh, the faint glow from the fireplace and the supernatural moonbeams shining through the west window only further illuminating the deep, dark circles under his eyes, leaving him more tired-looking than usual. Rather than being neatly brushed, his thick dark hair seemed to have been haphazardly thrown to one side, yet another testimony to the argument that he was being affected by something.

Like a curse.

_That didn't exactly answer my question, either._

Riddle transferred his books back to their place nestled under his arm, and an awkward silence, broken only by the random crackling of the fireplace, filled the common room. Hermione had not stopped staring thoughtfully at Riddle, still unsure of how she should approach the situation, and Riddle, for his part, had not stopped staring at Hermione… until he shook his head slightly and took another step toward his staircase. "I really should go."

_Yes, you should,_ Hermione thought wryly, a mad, insane idea taking shape in her head. But, then again, this entire day had been absolutely mad. The entire situation in which she and her friends were so hopelessly stuck in was mad! _Go now, before I do something I'm going to regret!_

Oh, what the hell.

Hermione's tired brown eyes cleared and snapped back on Tom Riddle, completely focused. "Hey, Tom!" she called after him quickly.

Riddle paused, his hand poised over the staircase's wooden railing, but his grey eyes snapped back to questioningly probe her face. "Yes?"

Although her mind was arguing, screaming in protest that this was still _not_ the best idea, Hermione swung her legs off the tan leather sofa and placed them on the floor so she was completely facing the Slytherin, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. Taking a breath to reassure herself, she said in as careless, indifferent a voice as she could muster, "Do you want to go to Hogsmeade this weekend?"

The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders took a nosedive off the top of Riddle's pile of books. With truly Quidditch-worthy reflexes, his hand shot out to grab it, and he unflappably returned the wayward book under his arm, but his ashen face had flushed to a very faint but discernable pink. Already having fumbled more in the past three minutes than in the entire three months Hermione had known him, Riddle replied guardedly, "I… I can't."

_Seven years at Hogwarts and you have not been to Hogsmeade. That is truly sad._

"I didn't ask if you _could_ go," Hermione countered, trying to come off as unconcerned as possible. The brunette unhurriedly straightened the sleeves of her dark uniform robes, rolling them once so they reached to the middle of her palms rather than the tips of her fingers. Somehow, she knew she would have the upper hand in this conversation. She glanced back up at him. "I asked if you _wanted_ to go."

Riddle's handsomely etched face had regained its pale colouring, and, even from her place across the common room, Hermione could see him close his eyes, swallow hard, and glance, almost longingly, up toward his bedroom door. "It doesn't matter if I want to or not, I don't have _parental permission."_ He bit out the last two words bitterly, his mouth twisting into a caustic little smile. "Apparently, the rule makers didn't take into account what would happen if you had no guardians to sign the bloody form to begin with."

Unlike the Hogwarts of her time, 1944 law stated that all students, not just the underclassmen, needed legal permission to attend Hogsmeade. Which would explain Riddle's predicament.

Reluctantly, Hermione felt her sharp gaze soften, her most dangerous emotion, pity, creeping into her mentality. "But if you _could_ go," she pressed gently, "Would you?"

Again, Riddle sighed exhaustedly. He leaned against the mutely tapestried wall beside the staircase, facing her Ravenclaw robed form completely, the pastels and lightly weaved colours of the drapery serving to distinctly outline his dark silhouette. "I'm tired, Nefertari," he said honestly, his usual light, velvety tone now gravelly and heavy with sleep. Surprisingly, Hermione couldn't detect a trace of irritation or scorn in his voice… just frankness and fatigue. "What sort of game are you playing at?"

Hermione's dark, thin eyebrows shot up, and she fought to hold back a trill of disbelieving laughter. "I don't know why you're being so difficult; it's a simple question. Would you go? Yes or no?"

Another small smirk crossed Riddle's face. "Doesn't everything come down to a simple yes or no, Nefertari?"

"I sup— " Hermione began, then paused in the mist of her automatic, agreed response. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and she actually began to turn Riddle's statement over in her mind. Did everything really come down to a simple yes or no? Was life that easy?

Her swiftly running thoughts took an abrupt U-turn toward the man before her, still awaiting her answer. Could Tom Riddle _only_ be simply Dark, end of story?

Or was there more to him than that?

"I don't necessarily… agree with that," she said slowly, feeling out each word as it left her mouth. She tried to carefully, symbolically compose what she would say next, hoping that Riddle might catch her drift, might open up a bit more… _if_ she conveyed her meaning in exactly the right way.

Hermione leaned forward in her seat, brushing some dark chocolate curls away from her face, her eyes genuinely earnest. "Sometimes, things are so much more than just black and white, good and evil, do you know what I mean? Sometimes, there's a little grey area in between that no one may know about, that everyone may think doesn't exist." She raised an eyebrow at him pointedly. "But that doesn't mean it's not there."

Riddle remained silent, but he seemed to be carefully studying Hermione's face. By now, Riddle's extended stares no longer affected Hermione, no longer made her feel like she was under a supermarket scan, and she patiently waited for him to collect his thoughts. Instead of responding, though, the Heir of Slytherin picked up The History of the Founders, gazing blankly down at its cover for several seconds.

"Yes."

His reply came out of nowhere. Hermione fought to keep a straight face, uncertain of why she was so shocked at his response. After what she had learned about the circumstances surrounding the Animacurse, she should have expected him to say yes, yet stunned she was…. though she was probably more surprised when her heart began to beat just a tad bit faster after he had answered.

"Really?" she asked disbelievingly. As soon as the question passed her numb lips, Hermione mentally kicked herself. _Smart, Hermione, way to win an intelligence award with that one._

That same, detached smirk reappeared on Riddle's face, one that momentarily reminded Hermione of Draco, and he slid the book back on top of the pile. "Really."

Ready to reel in the bait, Hermione calmly said, "Good," returning his challenging smirk with a smile. Reaching into her right pocket, she felt her fingertips brush a smooth, neatly folded sheet of parchment, and she pulled it out. Mentally thanking the gods that her extensive persuasive abilities hadn't been summoned for nothing and that part of her night hadn't been wasted for nothing, she waved the parchment around like a little flag. "Because I got Dippet to sign as your guardian."

With a _ban_g, Riddle placed the bottom of his foot back up against the wall and pushed himself off it, taking a few steps forward, his head cocked to one side, his grey eyes doubtful. Leaning toward her as if he couldn't have possibly heard her correctly, he asked incredulously, "You _what?"_

"I convinced our dear headmaster to sign your permission," Hermione repeated patiently, unfolding the official document and holding it up so Riddle could just make out the silver and green seal of approval stamped in the upper right hand corner.

Riddle squinted in the faint light… Suddenly, like a storm boiling up out of the calmest day, his face contorted into a mask of pain, his left arm shooting up and curling tightly around his stomach, his right hand blindly reaching out to clutch the stairway railing. As he doubled over, the five books he was carrying tumbled, in slow motion, it seemed, from under his arm, hitting the ground with five individual SLAPs!

Horrified, Hermione's hand jumped to cover her mouth, and she watched Riddle slowly, gingerly sink down onto the second step, his breath coming in rapid gasps, audible even from across the room. Uncertainly, she climbed to her feet and took a few steps toward him, smoothing her skirt, unsure of what to do—or say—next.

The moment Riddle had gone into his Anima attack—what Hermione had come to call his bouts—she had, in spite of herself, felt something stir deep within her. The entire discussion she had had with her time travelling companions earlier that day, the entire reason the curse worked as it did, came flooding back to her, and she walked forward another couple of steps, another couple of steps closer to _him._ It was extremely awkward, for lack of a better word, knowing that Riddle was in pain—and he _was_ in pain—on her account.

The deadly, impassive reality of the entire situation suddenly struck Hermione like a ton of bricks.

Tom Riddle fancied her. He really did. The Anima Adflictatio curse could not be lied to. And, just beyond any progression of that caring, lay his certain death.

Had the weight of the world's future _and_ Lord Voldemort's fate just shifted from Harry's shoulders to hers?

Hermione inhaled deeply and, just as slowly, released the breath, willing her pounding temples to relax. She stood uncomfortably, having already made it across the room. She finally occupied herself with bending down and quickly, neatly stacking Riddle's fallen books in a pile at the bottom of the stairs. Riddle, for his part, seemed to be so busy concentrating on controlling the effects of the curse that Hermione wasn't sure if he saw her or not.

She critically eyed the remaining space on the second step of the Head Boy's staircase. Deeming it sufficiently wide enough for her, she picked her way over the small stack of books and sat down beside Riddle. Getting comfortable, she leaned the left side of her face on the soft material of her left forearm so she was looking up at Riddle's bowed head sideways. "Are you all right?" she finally asked softly.

Riddle started, his head jerking up in surprise as if he had just realized that the brunette was in such close proximity. Warily, he glanced down at her, confusion and tiredness filling his eyes, his chest still heaving. "I…" Wincing, he carefully removed his arm from his stomach and slowly straightened his back to its full height. "I will be."

Smiling hesitantly, not especially wanting to inadvertently do anything to set off another Anima attack, Hermione wordlessly passed him the parchment that had brought on his initial bout.

Silently, Riddle accepted it, his grey eyes nimbly flickering over the elegantly scripted words, and, lastly, over the coveted signature. "How long did it take you to convince Dippet to do this?" he hoarsely asked after a few seconds of silence, broken only by his heavy, struggling breaths.

Hermione shrugged imperturbably. "Forty-five minutes."

Riddle choked and covered his mouth, coughing violently and again clutching his stomach. Hermione froze, not moving, not even breathing. Only her eyes widened, stunned, as she finally identified the emotion that had been bubbling just beneath the surface ever since Tom Riddle had entered the common room.

Hermione felt… _guilty._ There was no other word for it. Even though it wasn't technically her fault that the curse was doing what it was to him.

_Wake up, Mione!_ she scolded herself viciously. _This is Tom Riddle! He killed Harry's parents! He killed **your** parents! He killed your friends! **He's at fault for destroying everything you've held dear!**_

_But he hasn't yet,_ That little yogic voice of virtue purred in her other ear, serving as the devil on her left shoulder versus the angel of reason on her right. _He hasn't done any of that yet…_

_But he has killed his father, he has opened the Chamber of Secrets, and he **has** already started the Death Eater meetings!_ the angel of reason argued stubbornly.

"But you know Dippet," Hermione continued hastily, rattling on just to drown out the voices in her head. "The man couldn't stay on topic for ten minutes if he wanted to. He kept flying away… away…" She trailed off, remembering her less-than-stimulating experience in the Headmaster's office earlier that night. "I had to pull him back on several occasions. Yank him, once." She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "I don't really think he liked that."

For a single second, Hermione almost thought she saw Riddle smile slightly from the corner of her eye, but she dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come when he continued to passively stare down at the parchment.

Finally, the Heir of Slytherin shifted his stormy gaze over to her. "Nefertari, I—" He hesitated, his breath catching, quickening once again before returning to its normal, steady pace. "Nobody's ever… I've not…" As he continued to speak, the words resonated unnaturally on his lips, as if he was sounding them out for the first time in his life… and he didn't know exactly how to put it. "Well… Thank you."

This time, Hermione couldn't stop her mouth from falling open in pure astonishment, but she expertly covered it up with an easy-to-fake yawn. Tom Riddle had just honestly… _sincerely_… thanked her.

Again.

That was twice in one day; once on paper, once by mouth. Hermione felt like she had broken some kind of world record, felt like today, December 2, 1944, was going to go down in history as one of the most shocking days of her life.

First there had been the note from Riddle, then hearing that the first of the Death Eater meetings had already begun, with Riddle the likely leader, _then_ finding out that Harry, not Draco, had secretly been attending those first Death Eater meetings as a spy, _then_ discovering the true meaning of the Anima curse, then actually _agreeing_ to helping encourage the development of said curse, _then_ arguing with the Headmaster of Hogwarts for nearly an hour on Tom Riddle's _behalf,_ then Riddle actually admitting that he would go to Hogsmeade with her, and _then_ Tom Riddle, the Heir of Slytherin, the possible future Dark Lord… thanking her.

Hermione smiled lightly. "Honestly, don't worry about it. Engaging Dippet in full debate was quite amusing, actually. I think the moment he had no other choice but to agree with me —which nearly killed him, mind you— may have been one of the highlights of the year."

She paused, now almost certain that she _had_ seen Riddle smile. Closing her eyes, she burrowed the left side of her face even deeper into the crook of her left arm, and, yawning, asked, "Do you need a tour guide for Hogsmeade on Saturday?"

Pleased with how innocent her question had turned out to sound—the yawn had definitely added to it— Hermione felt Riddle shift—more like jerk—beside her. A beat passed, though, and her stomach tightened nervously. Lovely… had she pushed too far?

Another beat.

Ohhh yes, the building silence in the room was doing absolutely nothing to alleviate her jumping nerves; her heart thudding at unnaturally supersonic speeds; would he take the bait or would she be caught—?

"You know, Nefertari," Riddle finally said quietly, his voice sounding strangely strangled, "I just might."

Yes. **_Score!_ **

Hermione grinned sleepily, every facial muscle screaming in protest as she forced her droopy eyes open once more. She had pushed once. She might as well go all the way. "I'll meet you at the Great Hall staircase at eleven?" she casually suggested.

Riddle's stormy eyes calculatingly stared into hers. From her extremely, almost unnervingly close range, Hermione was blown away when, rather than them being a solid sheath of foggy grey, she noticed several small but noticeable specks of clear, sapphire blue scattered throughout the twin pools of color.

Yes, this day was most definitely going down in history.

Riddle still seemed to be thinking to himself as he slowly nodded his agreement. "All right." Cautiously, he reached out, grabbed the railing, and lethargically pulled himself to his feet. "All right," he repeated, this time with conviction. "Eleven o'clock."

A cool, blissful sense of relief surged through Hermione, and she felt her maniacal heartbeat slowly begin to level itself out to a natural pace. She had done it. Thank _Merlin,_ she had make it undetected through Round One with Tom Riddle.

With the first step having been successfully accomplished, Hermione's eyes began to wander. They landed on Riddle's books, still where she had neatly left them at the foot of the stairs. "Hey, wait a second!" she exclaimed automatically. Quickly reaching down, she hefted the five books up over her shoulder, precariously balancing them in her hands. "Don't forget these."

Riddle's gaze speedily travelled between his stack of books and Hermione's warm brown eyes. Without a sound, he took a few stumbling steps back down the stairs, and, bending down, the bottom of his robes accidentally brushing against Hermione's cheek, he took the stack from her hands. "Thanks."

_Good Merlin, once you get him started, he doesn't stop. _

Hermione smiled again, tiredly burying her entire head in her arm, and her voice, now muffled, said, "Night, Tom."

She could sense Riddle hovering there for a good minute, not saying a word, just… being. "Goodnight," he eventually murmured, his voice low and uncharacteristically raw. She heard him begin to ascend the staircase, his heavy, weary steps making him sound more like he was seventy years old rather than seventeen.

As soon as his bedroom door closed with a soft SNAP, Hermione shut her eyes resignedly and took a deep, shuddery breath.

She had just extended Tom Riddle a hand in friendship.

She had absolutely no idea how it was going to turn out.

**A/N:** Review, comment, say hi, what's up, anything! Tell me, how do you like the Half-Blood Prince? Are you even reading it? Which Potter book was your favorite? (I think mine was either Goblet of Fire or Prisoner of Azkaban)

Peace out

Lady Moonglow


	20. Have You Ever Been Given A Choice

**A/N:** It was great to hear how each of you liked Harry and the HBP! It was really interesting how the reviews were all over the board: some of you _really_ liked it, some of you _sorta_ liked it, and some of you _didn't_ like it at all! (POA seemed to be the general favorite, with GOF in close second, by the way. I guess we all love Sirius!) PP Ruffie and theflirt41, to answer your question: I will admit, I stayed up the entire night to finish the book, and I was rather proud I didn't skip ahead to read the ending because I have the WORST habit of doing that (and then I end up not wanting to read the middle now that I know what's going to happen). With everything said and done, keeping the _really_ sad ending in mind…I kind of predicted that, but I still didn't like it, and I _didn't_ expect them to die like they did)...I really liked this book; more specifically, I really liked _Harry_ in this book. I thought he was really whiny and immature in the 5th one, you know, yelling all the time, but now he seemed really mature and ready to step up to bat, so to speak. I also liked the Felix potion, thought it was funny how Jo portrayed that. I kind of found the Ron/Lavender thing amusing, too, what with this story and all…guess some things aren't all _that_ AU… I suppose I'll just have to continue on with my story of Tom's humaneness versus Jo's version of him basically being born evil…

_As soon as his bedroom door closed with a soft SNAP, Hermione shut her eyes resignedly and took a deep, shuddery breath._

_She had just extended Tom Riddle a hand in friendship._

_She had absolutely no idea how it was going to turn out._

**Chapter 20: Of Strawberry Surprises and Long-Lost Memories**

Saturday, December 4, 1944

10:31 A.M.

"What did you say you were doing today?" Ginny asked Hermione from her place curled up comfortably on a fluffy recliner in the made-over, currently den-like Room of Requirements.

"I'm…" Hermione paused in front of an elegant, full-length mirror set up decoratively along one of the Room's walls. "Erm…" Sticking two sturdy hair bands between her teeth, she expertly pulled what she could of her soft, curly chocolate brown hair into two French-braided pigtails, adding the ties at the end of each braid as she went so only a few curly wisps around her face remained free. "…going to Hogsmeade."

"Oh, that's right, _Hogsmeade,"_ Ginny muttered darkly, not coming off as one in a particularly cheerful mood.

Critically eyeing the remainder of her appearance—nearly knee length, furry white snow boots, a toasty but attractive time-appropriate skirt, rose turtleneck sweater, and her blue and bronze embroidered, dark Ravenclaw cloak—Hermione decided that a simple warming charm would most likely serve as good enough guard against the unrelenting, bitter winter chill that she would undoubtedly find at the village.

Her eyes taking in the otherwise deserted Room of Requirements, Hermione frowned. "Hey, Gin, have you seen everyone else? I know Harry's last Dark Arts meeting was last night, if you know what I mean, but Ron, Lav, and Draco said they would all be going."

"Oh, I know what you mean," Ginny agreed scathingly, "and the merry band of resident DEs partied until the wee hours of the night, if you know what _I_ mean. So Harry crashed back into the Slytherin Commons at three in the morning and hasn't woken up yet. I don't especially blame him. As for the rest of them, I've got one word for you, darling." Ginny unaffectedly flipped the page of the 1944 December edition of _Witches' Vogue_ in her hands. "And that's '_Quidditch_.' "

Hermione's mouth dropped open, and she glanced over her shoulder and through the frosted window… at the fat, falling, blowing snow that seemed as if it had appeared out of a winter wonderland. "They have practice in _that?"_

_Good **Lord, **men and **sports**… Wait, I take that back, Lavender's not a guy, and **she's** out there… Go Lavender…_

"Yeah, thank the gods that _Captain_ Calugala decided to use his brain for once and not book Slytherin the pitch on a weekend; it's saved us a nasty bit of flying, let me tell you. Hufflepuff's practice runs today, though, right after Gryffindor's, so neither Ron nor Lavender could make it." Ginny smirked. "Apparently, Beater Draco's not doing as well as he had hoped; Captain Cal's giving him a bit of a hard time for it right now in the Quidditch lockers, or so I've heard, so he's out for the rest of this afternoon… and you know I've got this _stupid_ Herbology project with Stefan Stinkerpinks, or whatever his sodding name is…"

"Shrimperdinks," Hermione corrected absently, throwing on her cloak.

"Whatever." Ginny's brown eyes momentarily spaced out. Absently, she fingered the green and red cover of _Witches' Vogue,_ but then, as if on inspiration, she snapped her fingers, pointing at Hermione. "Why don't you go with Dominic Davies? Ravenclaw doesn't have Quidditch today, and I've heard that Davies has a bit of a thing for you, actually— And Mione, you have to admit, with him being the captain of the Ravenclaw team, you have a very eligible with a capital _E_ Holiday Soiree date in the bag—"

"Actually," Hermione began, returning her attention to the mirror and watching her reflection as she wrapped her striped Ravenclaw scarf around her neck, moving on to her blue and bronze gloves, "I'm already going with someone. To Hogsmeade, I mean."

She finished with the gloves and moved on to a dark blue winter hat, complete with a little round puff of bronze and blue at the top. She pulled it over her French-braided head, surreptitiously watching Ginny calculatingly watch her, Hermione, in the mirror. Deciding that a quick exit was the best way to go, she waved as cheerfully as she could at Ginny's redheaded reflection and turned toward the door… but before she made it, Ginny inquired in a neutral voice, "Did he ask, or did you?"

Hermione's feet reluctantly halted, inches from the door. "I did," she replied honestly, spinning back around toward Ginny. "He hasn't gone before because he never had any parents to sign his permission. Ever."

Ginny snorted. "Oh, _poor boy,_ then, isn't he?" Flinging aside the _Witches' Vogue_ with a sudden, newfound energy, and using that dark, acidic tone she only used when talking about Lord Voldemort —the man who had possessed her, had made her first year at Hogwarts a waking nightmare— Ginny stood lithely, tightly grasping Hermione's shoulders. "Don't think for a _minute_ that he hasn't been there, Mione! You can bet that he's gone there illegally for all of his Dark Magic activities and Death Eater contacts, you can bet yourself that!"

Hermione sighed and wrapped her arms around Ginny's, placing _her_ hands on _Ginny's_ shoulders. "Ginevra, do you remember what I asked all of you to do for me back in here a few days ago, particularly regarding a certain curse, a certain plan of mine, and a certain Heir of Slytherin?"

At hearing her full name, Ginny winced, but that didn't mean she was giving up. "I know, I _know,_ Hermione; no interfering. But let me say this once, one time, and then I swear on Merlin's grave, I will never bring it up again. I will never even mention your relationship with Vol —Riddle— ever, _ever_ again. I swear."

Somehow, Hermione found Ginny's last phrase a bit hard to swallow, but didn't interrupt.

The redhead's voice lowered urgently, gaining both momentum and a desperate, untamed air. "Mione, I've seen the side of him that you can't seem to accept is there. I've _seen_ the Darker side, I've felt the pure, utter evil that eats and eats away at innocent people's souls-" Her normally assertive voice caught slightly, but she swallowed hard and continued quietly, "Until all that's left is a ghost of what was."

"I remember, Gin," Hermione muttered, leaning her forehead against Ginny's, their arms still entangled, "You know that I do." Her eyes saddened at the memory. By no means had she forgotten how the Diary had, for so long, affected Ginny. But… there was something about that idea, the idea of the diary…

Hermione frowned momentarily, but her mind was racing, doing Indy 500 laps in her head. Slowly, thoughtfully, not quite sure where the actual inspiration for it came, she mused, "But was it _Riddle_ who actually set up that diary to act as it did, Gin, or was it _Lord Voldemort?"_

Abruptly, Ginny untangled herself and stepped back from Hermione. Her brown eyes probed her brunette friend in disbelief, as if she couldn't quite believe that the Head Girl for two years running was not able to see what she, Ginny—and what everyone else, it seemed—so clearly saw. "You know, Mione, call me crazy, but I've always been under the rather popular impression that Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort are, and always have been, the same person."

Her hand resting on the smooth, cool knob of the Room of Requirements door, Hermione froze. She had never thought of it like that before, but Ginny was right: they were the same person.

_Weren't they?_

**10:56 A.M.**

Hermione was still mulling over Ginny's parting words as she trotted down the stairs outside the Great Hall. Of course Riddle was Lord Voldemort… After all, it was _he_ who had invented the name in the first place. Thinking that the two weren't one and the same was madness, utter rubbish…

But yet, as cruel, dangerous, sinister, and murderous as she knew Lord Voldemort to be… she was still waiting for Tom Riddle to do anything more than raise his voice to her. And Riddle had only done that once, when he had found out that she was running an underground party operation behind his back. Had the roles been reversed, Hermione would have probably hexed him on the spot.

…And then Riddle had turned around and thanked her; not once, not twice, but _three times._

_It could have all been an act, _she reminded herself wearily, tired of constantly arguing back and forth with herself on this subject when she was clearly going nowhere with it._ You've seen for yourself how skilled he is at spinning entirely convincing stories._

But, in all honesty, she thought - waving back at Dominic Davies after he and about five other seventh year Ravenclaw she vaguely remembered meeting during classes or at lunch beckoned her over to their haunt by the open courtyard door - she didn't think that any of the comments Riddle had voiced to her the previous Thursday night —the night she had asked him to Hogsmeade— were acts.

Or, for some mad reason, she just desperately wanted to believe that he was telling her the truth.

"Hermione!" Davies greeted enthusiastically as soon as she arrived. Hermione couldn't help but be struck by how much he resembled his grandson Roger… the same impression she got every time she saw him. "Going to Hogsmeade, I see; excellent!"

"Excellent except I should probably finish all of my Christmas shopping today," Hermione countered, then groaned as the truth of the statement sank in. With the rapid approach of the Holiday Soiree (and all the extensive preparations involved), this would most likely be her last free weekend, let alone free _Hogsmeade_ weekend, before Christmas. "Is it still snowing?"

Davies cocked his head to the left a bit so he could see out the courtyard door. "Nope, looks like it let up for a bit," he reported as the cavalry of horseless carriages arrived… Horseless, at least, for those students still innocent to the trials of life, Hermione thought as she noticed one thestral quicken its pace to catch up to the carriage in front of it.

"Du Lac let slip in Potions yesterday about how none of them could make it to Hogsmeade this weekend… except you." The Ravenclaw grinned amicably, the smile lighting up his unquestionably good-looking, fair features. "If you're desperate, you're always welcome to join up with a couple of blokes like us."

"I know, Dominic," she smiled. Standing beside the six strapping, lofty Ravenclaw Quidditch players, she suddenly realized how an ant must feel walking into a roomful of humans. Right now, she was definitely the ant. "Thanks, really, but today I have some official business I'm on, I'm afraid."

_DONG!… DONG!… DONG!..._

Before Davies could question her on what exactly this 'official business' was, the ancient but surprisingly spry grandfather clock in the Great Hall struck eleven; its low, resonate sound could be heard even over the nearly riotous noise of rowdy students. By now, the front foyer and parts of the snow-dusted courtyard outside were choked with witches and wizards of all ages, sizes, and dress.

Somehow, though, Hermione doubted Tom Riddle would ever approach her if she was standing around talking with a large group of seventh year Quidditch players, including a captain.

Tom Riddle just didn't work that way.

Cheerfully, she waved goodbye as Davies disappointedly nodded his farewell, and the blond made his way out to the carriages with the five other Ravenclaws. The group easily managed to pick up a few giggling girls in the relatively short distance between the courtyard door and the line of waiting escorts.

With a last glance out the door, Hermione turned, carefully scanning the crowded room from top to bottom for a glimpse of Tom Riddle's tall, dark head.

She found nothing.

Luckily, her invite from the past night chose that exact moment to run through her memory. _"I'll meet you at the Great Hall staircase at eleven?"_

_Of course, the staircase!_

Deftly twirling her wand twice about her fingers, Hermione threaded, to the best of her ability, through the various cliques of students. She jammed her wand back in her pocket as the crowd spit her out, astonishingly unscathed but gasping for air, right in front of said staircase. _Well, that was luck._

Still seeing no sign of Riddle, Hermione perched precariously on the edge of the seventh step up. Another unsuccessful search around the foyer below, and a doubt, a tiny seed of a doubt but still a seed nonetheless, began to take root in the pit of her stomach.

Would Riddle be hopelessly late, just to capitalize on the nasty lack of on-timeness that had seemed to follow Hermione around at the beginning of the year? Had he forgotten, even? Would he even show up at all?

Eleven passers-bys later, a long shadow appeared over her right shoulder, and her suspicions were, blissfully, proved wrong when she tilted her head backwards, her relieved eyes meeting Tom Riddle's exhausted ones.

Okay, so maybe she was just a tad bit surprised that Riddle had showed up. She wasn't surprised, though, when she caught a little glimpse of Riddle's uniform through the folds of his worn but thick, dark, forest green cloak. Was he glued to that uniform?

"Morning," she greeted, giving him a bright smile— albeit an upside-down one, from his point of view above her. She squinted in the bright torchlight shining directly to his left. "Ready?"

Riddle simply tilted his head toward the courtyard door. "The carriages are about to leave. Let's go."

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," she muttered, pushing herself to her feet. Even from Riddle's opening words, she was getting the odd impression that he was keeping himself more guarded today than usual.

Brushing off the back of her cloak, Hermione followed Riddle down the remaining Great Hall steps, taking the lead out into the snow-dusted, grey winter morning. The icy winter blast blew savagely through the folds of her cloak, and she quickened her pace, purposefully striding toward the very last carriage. Wrenching open the nearly frozen-shut door, she hopped energetically inside.

Plopping down on the soft, rich, warm crimson seat, she expected Riddle to be right after her… but he was trailing some way behind, head bowed slightly, arms wrapped around himself to block the cold— but also as if in… self-defence? His steps were slower than usual as well; each one seemed deliberate, calculated. Tentative, even?

_No._ Hermione shook her head, deciding her imagination had gone too far. If Tom Riddle was anything, he wasn't tentative.

Riddle climbed into the carriage a moment before it pulled away.

The carriage jerked abruptly and began to roll forward. Hermione noticed that Riddle was also unusually quiet. As the short journey to Hogsmeade went on, the lids of his tired eyes would occasionally droop in the dim carriage lighting, but he did a fine job of keeping them open by focusing his blank gaze directly across from him, on a random spot on Hermione's dusty rose sweater. He couldn't, however, hide the small but extremely conspicuous dark half circles under his eyes.

Her stomach sank. This, if anything, directly pointed toward the boy across from her as leader of the Death Eaters. If _Harry_ was still asleep after the meeting the night before, then Riddle should have been dead in bed... Figuratively speaking, of course. She was amazed that he had agreed to come to Hogsmeade in the first place.

Now, though, was the perfect opportunity for her to find out more about his daily whereabouts, Hermione realized. She stopped watching the all-white scenery blur by the frosted window, and, shifting her eyes to face the Heir of Slytherin, asked innocently, "Late night?"

Riddle's eyes flickered up to Hermione's face, completely unreadable, as usual. "You could say that," he muttered apathetically, coolly. Not elaborating.

_Aw, come on, Tom, you can do better than that._ Hermione pretended to nod in mock-satisfaction, began to turn back toward the window… and sharply glanced back at Riddle, her eyes curious. "Why?"

Riddle shrugged, much less carelessly than in her previous experiences with him, and a little half-smirk appeared on his face. "You don't give up, do you?" he asked, his voice quiet, weary. It was more of a statement than a question, really, and as such she didn't warrant him with an answer.

He absently removed his two dark gloves and began rubbing them absently between his fingers. Out of the blue, he said, "I read the book you gave me." His stormy eyes left the weaves and folds of his gloves to gauge Hermione's reaction.

Before she could stop it, a teasing smile lit her face, and she decided to drop the Death Eater meetings mini-investigation… for now. "So, was it everything you dreamed it would be, and more?" she asked with the slightest of smiles.

Riddle smirked and looked out the carriage window. "It was worth reading, if that's what you mean." The passing pristine and snow covered wilderness had begun to thin out, signalling their arrival to Hogsmeade. As he began to tug his gloves back on his hands, he added, more roughly, "Where's du Lac, Nefertari? And the rest of your entourage, West and West and Evans and Brown? It's not at all like them to leave you all by your lonely self."

Hermione's eyebrows popped up incredulously. _Good Merlin, I get you permission to come here and this is what I get? **Honestly.** _Exasperatedly, she rolled her eyes, praying that this would not be a Tom Riddle Attitude Day.

"First off, _Riddle,"_ she began tartly, "they are not my _entourage,_ they are my _friends._ Big difference there. Secondly, it's not _possible_ for me to be 'left by my lonely self' because I have this incredible—and somewhat rare ability, in your case—to enjoy myself most _anywhere_, at most _any_ time, with most _any_ person, in most _any_ situation."

_Al lright, so that may be stretching it just a bit. But he doesn't know that!_

"_Thirdly,"_ she briskly continued before Riddle could get a word in edgewise, her crisp voice raising a notch, almost to the point where she would have knowingly waggled a finger at him had they actually been friends, "had Draco, Ron, and Lavender _not_ had Quidditch practice, had Harry _not_ been sleeping, and had Ginny _not_ needed to finish an urgent Herbology project, you can bet they would be here right now."

She paused for breath, her heart pounding in her chest, suddenly growing concerned about how Riddle would take her rant. _Great._ For all she knew, she could have just ruined the afternoon. _Yeah, way to worry about that now, Hermione._

_He started it!_ A corner of her mind bleated childishly.

The one thing she didn't expect, however, was the corner of Riddle's lips to quirk upward into another of his smirks. "So there."

_What?_ she thought as the carriage rolled to a shaky stop and its doors clicked open. As Riddle gracefully exited the carriage, her eyes narrowed for a split second, about ready to come up with some kind of sarcastic comeback. '_So there?'—**Ohhh.** _In spite of herself, a laugh escaped her lips as the appropriateness of his two words hit her.

Hurriedly, she pulled on her cloak and poked her head out the carriage door, the frigid wind not the least bit inviting. Riddle was leaning casually against the side of the carriage, large white snowflakes already beginning to dot his dark hair. "Touché, Riddle, touché." Smile still on her face, she wrinkled her nose. "I suppose I deserved that, didn't I?"

"Thank you," he replied mildly, his voice augmenting slightly to be heard over the growing yells of the rest of the student body being let loose, "and yes, you did."

Unexpectedly, almost nonchalantly, Tom Riddle reached up from his lounge against the carriage and offered her his hand. Hermione gaped down at his outstretched glove for at least five seconds, completely taken aback. Her mouth opened, snapped shut… and she took it, balancing on his hand as she bounced out of the carriage and to the ground. She released it quickly. "Thanks."

Proud at how well she had masked her utter shock at his… _manners,_ should she call them?— Hermione shook her head slightly. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind.

This was going to be an interesting afternoon.

**2:23 P.M.**

"And that one—that one right there—that's a Tongue Twisting Toffee." Hermione pointed at one of the several variously shaped wrapped candies Tom Riddle was holding up in his gloved palm. A strong gust of wind blasted through the small village, and she involuntarily shuddered... whether from the weather or from the thought of what the toffee could do to a person, Hermione wasn't sure. "Trust me, you don't want that one."

Riddle sceptically studied the pile of sweets in his hand. "If it were you who had to risk it, which one would _you_ have?"

Hermione furrowed her brow, seriously considering his question. The muffled conversations and sporadic shouts from inside the Three Broomsticks only served to radically disrupt her concentration. "Well, I actually have to admit, I do like a lot of them—yeah, scary, isn't it?— but my favourite one… would have to be…"

Scooting right next to Riddle, closer than she would have ever dared to be—or even _wanted_ to be, for that matter— before the past few weeks, Hermione poured over his glove, some wisps of curly hair falling into her face as she lightly pawed through her options.

Wait a second. Had she just thought,_ 'wanted'? _

"Umm… This one." She emerged triumphantly, holding up a brightly wrapped spiral. Riddle eyed the candy suspiciously, sliding the remaining sweets back into the bag he had been carrying: a small, red paper pouch with an ornate, cursive gold _Honeydukes_ stamped onto its side. She handed the Heir of Slytherin the spiral, pink paper-wrapped toffee.

"What is it?" he asked circumspectly, eying it warily.

"It's called a Strawberry Surprise; it tastes like strawberry." Hermione began walking alongside him down the snowy avenue, their feet crunching with each step as they passed a group of frolicking third years, the bright but cloudy morning already having darkened into afternoon.

"Well, isn't that original." As Hermione narrowly dodged a rogue snowball, he smirked. "Why is it a surprise?"

Hermione dignifiedly straightened her cloak, tossing a dirty look over her shoulder at Dominic Davies, the culprit of the snowball, which she now figured wasn't as rogue as she had first thought it to be. Turning back to Riddle, she mirrored his expression. "It's a _surprise,_ Riddle, because you never know what you might get."

Another burst of snow blew up and danced across the road in front of them, and one of Hermione's braids actually whipped up into Riddle's shoulder. Laughing, she grabbed her hat with one hand and pulled the braid back with the other, partially tucking it under her cloak.

Riddle, though, went silent, and the only other noise came in the form of war whoops from the full-fledged snowball fight that had erupted in the street behind them. As even that began to fade into the distance, Hermione could honestly say that she was glad to leave the hectic business of the village behind.

"What does it do?" Riddle finally asked, holding up the spiral toffee once more.

Out of nowhere, her competitive streak reared its eager head. "Hm, don't know," she mused quite innocently, though the wicked smile that had slid across her face sent quite an opposite message. She nodded slyly at the Strawberry Surprise. "Why don't you try it and find out?"

Riddle's eyebrows shot up. He stared at her briefly, then deftly unwrapped the spiral, revealing two toffee cylinders, one pink and one white, wrapped together like a double helix.

Though she still strolled on, Hermione slowed down considerably and reached over. Carefully taking hold of the pink strand, she peeled the two apart so that he was only holding the thin white roll. "All right, you eat that one, and I eat this pink one. On three. One, two…"

Both she and Riddle popped their respective pieces into their mouths, and a familiar, mouth-watering, heavenly fruity flavour burst through her taste buds. Closing her eyes, savouring the taste, she waited for the sure-fire comment from Riddle… and, not surprisingly, it came soon after.

"For as good as it tastes, Nefertari, nothing exciting's happening."

Hermione glanced over her shoulder to making sure that she and he were the only two within a reasonable distance. Momentarily smiling at the flashing cloaks and flying snowballs that she could just make out in the Hogsmeade streets at least a quarter of a kilometre back, Hermione slid off one of her blue gloves and stopped walking. "Now touch my hand."

The towering but slight Slytherin didn't even bother to hide the suspicion that jumped back to his eyes. "Why?" he asked guardedly, no doubt remembering the several other instances in which his skin and Hermione's had made physical contact.

Delightedly, gleefully, Hermione realized that her best response was a question that she had been dying, _dying_ to ask for weeks, but had never had the proper opportunity. Now, though, she seized her chance.

Giving Tom Riddle her most charming smile, feeling her eyes light up, her one dimple even sliding into place — that being a miracle in itself— she inquired in the most innocent, most charismatic, most sincere-sounding voice she had ever used on _anyone,_ "Tom… Don't you _trust_ me?"

Riddle's wary expression froze on his face. Thinking back on it, Hermione honestly couldn't remember ever seeing anyone go as still as quickly as Riddle had just then.

For at least a minute, he hesitated, and their breathing—his controlled and rhythmic, hers light and slightly breathless—, the quiet _whoooosh_ of the breeze, the distant student howls, the chattering winter birds, and the occasional heavy _thud_ as a pile of snow fell from a tree branch to the ground were the only sounds audible to both of them.

Hermione's mind wandered back to her earlier years, her naive years when she had had no knowledge of the wonders of the wizarding world, wandered to her Muggle school literature classes—simplified for the younger children, of course—where she had readily memorized the four conflicts of the human person: Man vs. nature, man vs. society, man vs. man…

And man vs. self.

She knew that her last rhetorical question had thrown another clash into the Heir of Slytherin's mentality. By going along with her original request, Tom Riddle would be giving out an extremely personal statement.

Yes, he'd touch her hand, or no, he wouldn't?

Did he trust her or not?

Slowly, ever so slowly, with his grey, piercing gaze never losing sight of her face, Riddle stuck his _Honeydukes_ bag into his cloak pocket and began to tug off the fingers of his right glove, removing them one by one. He took such a long time, Hermione wondered if he was repeatedly re-convincing himself, with each finger, to do what he was about to.

Finally, though, the dark glove was off.

And with a final, intense gaze into her expectant eyes, Riddle extended his hand.

Hermione watched, not moving an inch, her breath surprisingly coming in quicker, more vigorous bursts, as he reached out to her. His fingers, long, piano player like, hovered for a split second, indecisive… until they gave in and brushed against her soft fingertips.

At the exact moment Riddle made contact with her, she firmly closed her hand around his, waiting for the Strawberry Surprise to kick in. It didn't disappoint.

Almost immediately, his eyes squeezed shut, and a small, hardly noticeable jerk passed through him. Just as quickly, his eyelids fluttered open again, and he seemed a bit disorientated, his hand gripping hers more tightly. _"What…" _His unsteady gaze finally landed on her, and he seemed almost surprised to see her standing next to him. "Was that yours?"

Hermione nodded, a smile breaking out on her face despite the overcast, dismal skies. Flicking a few snowflakes off her nose, she asked curiously, "What'd you see?"

Riddle distantly glanced off toward the forest, his eyes not seeming to stare at any one spot in particular, and caught his breath. "I saw… you, but you were younger, much younger, and a woman who looked like she could be… your mother?"

Hermione nodded, suddenly grateful that her mum had always been one to tan easily and retain the colouring all year long. She had a vague idea of which happy memory of hers the Strawberry Surprise toffee had given to Riddle, but she signalled for him to continue.

"You mother, and, judging by the lack of space, your entire family was there, I assume… It looked to be Christmas…" Riddle furrowed his dark brow. "You were decorating, singing, eating… doing whatever else it is that people like yourself do at parties…"

_'People like yourself...' Purebloods, you mean._ Hermione couldn't help but give a little dignified snort at his last comment. _If **only** he knew the truth— Hey! It's still here!_

Gleefully, Hermione spied a small, snow-covered gazebo in the near distance, its white colouring almost rendering it camouflaged with its surroundings. In the past—er, future— the gazebo was broken-down, dirty, cobwebbed, and used as a far border for the fence surrounding the Shrieking Shack. Now, though, the Shrieking Shack was not yet constructed, and it looked sparkling clean, brand new, empty, inviting, and completely—

"_Dry," _she said dreamily, then covered her mouth in dismay when she realized that she had actually voiced the thought aloud.

Bemusedly, Riddle followed her gaze, his eyes landing on the gazebo. "I actually agree with you entirely on this one, Nefertari."

That was all the encouragement Hermione needed. Her original smile never having totally left her face, she tugged on his hand—still holding hers—and began to pull him off the beaten path toward the bench… before she remembered exactly who she was touching and swiftly released his hand, taking up the narrative.

"I don't think I'll ever forget that Christmas. Just imagine this. You were right, I have a huge extended family, and we've all chipped in and rented out a French chateau for the week. It's madness; I swear, I'll never do it again. Dad and the other big, _strong_ men of the family decide to 'venture out into the wilderness' and cut the Christmas tree 'the old-fashioned way.' So they go right out into the woods next to the chateau with these gigantic axes and saws and such, and come back _hours_ later, dragging this massive thing—which they can barely even fit through the chateau doors, might I add."

Muttering under her breath what remotely sounded like, _"Men," _she smirked, hopping a log and landing in half-metre pile of snow on the other side. _Stupid… snow…_

Determinedly, she pulled herself free and trudged doggedly onward toward the gazebo. _Whoever puts a gazebo this far away from the road, anyway?_

"Anyway, as I've said, the whole family's over," she decided to continue, "and we have the admittedly… _unwise_ custom of putting up all the holiday decorations on Christmas Eve and then crashing until Christmas afternoon— And you can just wipe that smirk off your face; I didn't make the stupid tradition up!— so the entire place is basically in general chaos for twenty hours. So, dad's finally gotten the tree up, but as it was, he had forgotten to ask the family of squirrels already living _in_ the tree to move out first."

From behind her, she heard him doubtfully ask, "Are you serious?"

Again glancing back over her shoulder at him, she was surprised to see that he appeared to be listening attentively to her every word, his mouth actually open just a bit, as if in surprise, and she laughed. "Oh, just wait, it gets better." Before she could continue, though, she shot into the gazebo with one last bound.

_Merlin, we've made it! _Immediately, she felt the shelter's wind-blockage ability take effect. _Thank God!_

Relieved, she spun in a circle, arms held out, until she dizzily plopped down on one of the snow-free benches, completely pooped. Riddle followed close behind, a small smirk on his face, the top of his dark head now dusted with a light covering of snow. Hermione could only assume he was as happy to temporarily get out of the elements as she was… minus the circle-spinning, of course.

"Meanwhile, those little buggers are wreaking havoc on the chateau— Oooo, my dad wants to _kill_ them." Smiling to herself as she remembered, she yawned and leaned her head back against one of the gazebo supports. "Of course, I'm only eight, I think they're the cutest things I've _ever_ seen, and I've already picked out the one I want to keep, so, naturally, I get _so_ upset with him when he just whips out his gu—wand."

Not noticing her almost-slip, Riddle smirked again, leaning against the support beam completely opposite her. "Naturally," he echoed, drawing his wand, tapping his hand, and muttering a simple warming charm.

"Darn right, and I naturally didn't speak to him for a week after that. I was a mean little kid. Anyway, those things are fast; dad nearly did more damage than the squirrels did." Wondering if he was planning on sitting down any time soon, Hermione paused, looking up at the tall Slytherin… and she trailed off, her words imperceptibly fading into oblivion, her mouth partially agape.

Tom Riddle was _smiling,_ smiling an actual smile— she could tell because a few lines around the corners of his eyes had crinkled up, something that she had never seen occur during his barrage of insincere smirks and vacant grins.

As abruptly as it had come, however, the smile faded, and Riddle sighed. Brushing a layer of snow off the shoulders of his cloak, he crossed the gazebo's diameter in less than two steps and sank down onto the bench beside her, staring at his hands: one glove-clad and black, the other exposed and light.

Hermione held back, hoping, _praying_ that this entire afternoon had not been in vain, that she had given enough of herself to at least temporarily receive some of him in return. _**Come** on, Riddle… say **something…**_

"I wish I had memories like that."

Recognizing when best to pull out of the game and turn spectator, Hermione hugged one knee up to her chest and leaned her head on it, merely gazing at him silently, feeling sympathy in her expression in spite of herself.

"Sometimes," Riddle continued in a low, raw voice, "Sometimes… I hate my life. I hate who I was, who I am, and I… I want to be someone else. Someone who has more control over what happens to him, someone who has the power to get exactly what he wants in life and not have _anyone_ tell him that he's not good enough…"

He looked away, off at the snow-covered vista, his jaw visibly clenched. Hermione felt her stomach sink, certain he was going to start preaching the Dark Arts any time now. She began to stare blankly at her snow-covered boot as he went on, "Someone I know I _could_ be, there's no doubt of that, but someone I'm…"

The Heir of Slytherin hesitated, and a spring of hope rushed back to Hermione's psyche. She tore her gaze back to his face interestedly as he said, even more quietly, "Someone I'm not entirely sure I want to be, now."

He stopped speaking suddenly, as if realizing he had said too much. "It's rather difficult to explain," he muttered. He shook his head resignedly, inadvertently sending a small shower of stray snowflakes flying in all directions.

Hermione's stunned eyes, still wide open from Riddle's extremely personal revelations, quickly blinked and cleared, and she studied his angry, frustrated, wholly cheerless profile. Her mind, however, was racing, zooming at record speeds, his last line still reverberating in her mind like a broken record: _'Someone I'm not entirely sure I want to be, now'… 'Someone I'm not entirely sure I want to be, now…' But why **now;** why not before?… _

"Riddle," she began slowly, wanting nothing more than to punch herself just to shut off her own over-analytical brain, "you can't control everything that happens. It's not possib—"

"Look at you!" he burst out unexpectedly, spinning back around to stare at her accusingly. Hermione quickly, subconsciously slid a few inches away from him down the bench. _"Look_ at your bloody life! Your perfect family, your happy little friends…"

A bitter scowl spread across his face as he turned away again and bit out scathingly, "You know a lot, Nefertari, I won't deny that, but you can't even begin to understand anything about how much of a _hell_ this horrid thing we call life can be—"

"My parents are dead," Hermione said quietly, calmly. Waiting.

"-you can't even—What?" he asked suddenly, nearly tripping over his own momentum as he came to an abrupt stop, still slightly breathless from his outburst. He sharply swivelled his head back to stare at her.

"My parents died when I was fifteen years old," she repeated patiently, her mouth going dry. "I came home fifteen minutes too late."

Riddle's eyebrows shot up. She had clearly caught him completely off-guard: he wasn't even bothering to hide the intense astonishment, as well as the—was it guilt?—scrawled all over his face. He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, closed it, then opened it again. "They… they did?" he asked dubiously.

Hermione gave him a small, empty smile. She had known that their conversations would most likely come down to this; she had realized that her passed family would eventually end up being a source of leverage, a source of connection between Tom Riddle and herself and their similar situations. Well, sort of similar.

Now, though, now that the time to discuss it had actually come …

_Mum! Dad! Where are you?_ Her mind bleated piteously, desperately, and right at that very moment, more than anything, Hermione wanted her parents more than she had ever wanted them during the past two and a half years they had been gone. "Yes," she eventually answered Riddle quietly, "they did."

"But…" the Slytherin shook his head, and he looked like he was still having an extremely difficult time swallowing what she had just told him. "But that was only two years ago."

"Three, actually," Hermione said absently, staring at a pair of students—who suspiciously resembled Jacobson Andrews and Phyllis Hardiman—as they danced down the road a bit of a distance away, holding hands, and, ultimately, ducking into a small, abandoned shack set a few metres from the deserted avenue.

She smirked half-heartedly. _If only._

"You're eighteen?" he asked, and she was surprised to detect even more surprise and disorientation in _his_ normally super-composed, omniscient voice.

"Yeah, last September..." She tore her eyes from the spot Jacobson and Phyllis had disappeared and straightened up. "Riddle, please, _please_ hear me out, because this is really important." She scooted over and turned herself on the bench so she was facing the Heir of Slytherin's stiff figure directly, not even concerned that her face was no more than twelve inches from his.

"I can't say," Hermione began carefully, deliberately picking over her words, "that I know what if feels like to have my own father disown me,"—she noticed the knuckles on Riddle's one ungloved hand grip the bench and turn white—"nor can I say that my mother has cursed me,"—all the colouring drained from his face—"but I loved my parents very, very much, Riddle, _very_ much, and I…"

Her pitch raised a notch, and, to her horror, her eyes begin to burn, hot and powerfully, with unshed tears. Violently, she shoved the sensation away and continued, strangled, "I saw them both lying, dead, in our own house, on our own living room floor. And they were _still_ warm, still… still—"

Her voice catching, she choked up. Swearing at herself for suddenly becoming a wimp, she doggedly shook her head, feeling the tears recess back in. She was going to get through this; she always had.

Sucking in a breath, the brunette continued in a stronger but relatively lifeless voice, "And I have to live with the knowledge that if I hadn't lingered on the way home, if I wouldn't have asked my ride to stop for a cup of coffee, if we wouldn't have talked to the waitress for so long, if I would have suggested another, faster route home… I might have gotten back in time to do _something."_

'_Right, Mione, **something;** what, you would've fought against the most powerful dark lord of our time and somehow managed to save **all** your lives?' _Ron's scornful comment from so many years ago floated through her mind. _'Mione, you're lucky you **did** do all those things… or we wouldn't have you with us right now.' _

"And, just so you know," she added acerbically, "that is _hell_ to deal with, too."

It may have been her imagination, but Hermione thought she actually saw Riddle's stormy eyes soften as he stared at her. Finally, he ripped his gaze back to his hands. "I suppose we've both lost everything in our own different ways, then… haven't we?"

She blinked rapidly and quickly glanced up at the gazebo's roof, feeling one single, runaway tear escape from her eye and trickle along the side of her face, freezing solid halfway down her cheek. "Yeah."

Both Head Boy and Girl fell silent, but soon Hermione felt Riddle's eyes again land on her, and he muttered, "Nefertari, what happened?"

A distinct, eerie chill tingled down her spine at the cruel irony of the entire situation. "They were both murdered by…" she thoughtfully ran her tongue over her cold lips, "the epitome of evil."

Riddle sat quietly, mulling, before he asked, "Grindewald?"

"It doesn't matter who," Hermione said firmly, wanting to move the conversation back to a definite safe zone. "What matters is—the point of this entire speech, from which I've gone so horribly off-topic, is… Riddle," she began again, having composed herself enough to finish what she had started, her eyes lighting up encouragingly, _"You_ can make memories like the ones I have, you know. No matter what's happened in your life, you _can."_

Briefly, he closed his eyes, and, in his lap, his hands balled into fists. Ducking his head, shaking it half-heartedly as if to disagree, the Slytherin muttered, "Quite the idealistic picture you've painted, Nefertari, but you've come a bit too late for me, I'm afraid."

Hermione lowered her head slightly to his hunched level. Tilting it to the left so she could see into his eyes, she searched his gaze warmly, genuinely, deciding that she wasn't going to let him get off that easily. "Tom," she said delicately, almost breathlessly, knowing he would look at her like he always did whenever she called him by his first name, "It's _never_ too late."

For an instant, for a single, solitary instant, Hermione thought that she could see a tiny, longing flicker of hope deep within Tom Riddle's apathetic grey eyes. Maybe, just maybe—

Suddenly, he emitted a small, startled yelp, bit his lip, and doubled over, clutching his stomach with one hand and the back of the bench with the other; in a matter of seconds, his face had turned completely ashen, and he began to cough violently, hardly able to catch his own breath.

_Oh, God. _

For some bizarre reason—bizarre in that this was the possible future murderer of her parents with whom she was dealing— Hermione felt the bottom of her own already-queasy stomach fall out from under her at seeing someone—yes, _even_ if that someone included Tom Riddle—hurting so badly.

Even though she knew exactly what was going on, she grabbed his shoulder frantically and heaved him upright, asking automatically, urgently, "Tom! What's wrong?"

Instead, as a second jolt ripped through his body, she actually _saw_ the pain in Tom Riddle's agonized grey eyes…and it wasn't _Hermione_ who passed out next, but _Riddle._

**A/N:**PS—Just to clarify, Tom gets the Anima attacks whenever he feels strongly for the person he likes…ie Hermione, and they'll get progressively worse until the curse becomes irreversible.


	21. Have You Ever Listened

**A/N:** Remember, guys, Hermione has to go from radically hating him (because his future self DID kill her parents), to kind of caring about him, to loving him (IF she goes that far...). Riddle didn't have that kind of history to deal with when he fell into like with her. This is not an overnight process for Hermione, not one of those stories where she's going wake up, decide she's in love, and just _throw_ herself on him! This chapter is also where the slightly AU early life of TR comes into play as well.

_For some bizarre reason—bizarre in that this was the possible future murderer of her parents with whom she was dealing— Hermione felt the bottom of her own already-queasy stomach fall out from under her at seeing someone—yes, even if that someone included Tom Riddle—hurting so badly._

_Even though she knew exactly what was going on, she grabbed his shoulder frantically and heaved him upright, asking automatically, urgently, "Tom! What's wrong?"_

_Instead, as a second jolt ripped through his body, she actually saw the pain in Tom Riddle's agonized grey eyes…and it wasn't Hermione who passed out next, but Riddle._

**Chapter 21: Just Tom**

Sunday, December 5, 1944

7:02 A.M.

Hermione yawned. Slowly uncurling herself from her original, curled-up position in a Slytherin green armchair, she stretched luxuriously, reaching her arms toward the ceiling until it seemed they would be able to move no further. She had long since abandoned her Ravenclaw cloak, scarf, gloves, and furry white boots, and she had pushed her sweater's dusty rose sleeves halfway up her arms to be halfway comfortable in the warm, sun-soaked room.

Somehow, she had managed to catch as many sporadic ZZZZs as she could while posted beside Tom Riddle's king-sized, Head Boy bed.

Were she any younger, spending this much time in a fully-adorned, hard-core Slytherin bedroom —complete with shimmering silvers and dark forest greens sweeping down in dramatic folds of fabric around the lofty, canopied top of the bed; the dark, mahogany coloured woods of the furniture; the Slytherin crest embossed on every letterhead and material worth stamping— would have definitely been disturbing. Fortunately, though, Draco's stint as Head Boy the past year had, in an outlandish sort of way, prepared her for this year's extensive dealings with the very heir of the Snake House itself.

Hermione's gaze flitted down to Riddle's sleeping face. In the still nothingness around her, her mind floated back to the night when she had first heard of _Anima Adflictatio_ - the night that she had lost all consciousness after her giant row with Riddle in the common room - and she was struck with an inevitable sense of role-reversal déjà vu.

Studying the dark-haired boy suspiciously, Hermione wondered if _he_ had stayed on a while when he had brought her up to _her_ room, or if he had just dumped her on her bed and left.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the object of her musings heaved a cavernous sigh—the first sign of life beside breathing that she had gotten from him since Hogsmeade— and leisurely rolled onto his side. His eyes flickered open placidly, squinting in the early morning light… then snapped open as, Hermione assumed, he realized exactly where he was.

Back in his own bedroom.

"I didn't think you'd want to go back to the hospital wing," Hermione remarked offhandedly, thoroughly enjoying the shock in Riddle's expression as he rapidly swung his head in the direction of her distinctive, articulate voice. She became even more amused when the Heir of Slytherin swiftly composed himself into one large ball of coolness.

"You're right, I wouldn't have." Delicately, Riddle touched his right temple and winced. "I passed out, I presume."

At the quite obvious deduction, Hermione couldn't help but respond with a very Draco-like smirk, "Five points to Slytherin." She crossed her arms and smugly leaned back in the armchair, drumming her fingers on a knitted rib of her sweater.

Riddle shot her a foul look, weakly propped himself up, and tested his balance with his left arm. He must have deemed himself still unstable, though, because he carefully sank back down into the bed and peered at her, the sunlight giving his tired face a slightly washed-out appearance. "Do draw those godforsaken curtains, Nefertari; do you want me to end up blind as well as bedridden?" he snapped wearily.

Holding back another smirk, Hermione arched an eyebrow in mock-consideration. After momentarily observing her mischievous, laughing eyes, Riddle shook his head impassively and muttered, "Don't answer that, actually."

The smirk broke its way onto Hermione's face anyway, and she casually raised her wand. Without even bothering to turn around and face the open curtains directly behind her, she pointed the supple wood over her head in the general direction of the windows. With an expert flick of her wrist, the thick curtains on each of Riddle's three floor-to-ceiling windows magically swished shut, immediately plunging the room back into the positively dreary, cold atmosphere of nearly pitch darkness.

Never losing sight of Riddle's face, Hermione arched one thin, dark eyebrow at him. "Happy?"

"Quite." Riddle's acute eyes studied her once more, and she lifted her chin, challengingly returning his piecing gaze. She was mildly impressed with his ability to appear imposing and completely in command of the situation, even while lying flat in bed. "I'm sure you realize, Nefertari," he began slowly, his eyes probing hers for a reaction, "that it takes a lot of rather advanced magic, performing simultaneous nonverbal Transmutus spells."

_Riddle, you don't even know the half of it. _"I'm not Head Girl for nothing," Hermione retorted smartly, her hand absently wandering up to the Amulet of Eras, a.k.a. the giant bulge under her sweater. She began to slide it back and forth underneath the knit material.

Riddle nodded to himself, glanced back at her, and smirked. "Yes, I suppose Hogwarts _did_ charge you quite a bit for it, didn't they?"

_Why, you good-for-nothing, conceited prat!_

Rolling her eyes, Hermione re-crossed her arms and casually stretched back out in the armchair, pulling from behind her back a tiny forest green cushion emblazoned with a silver snake. "Didn't take you long to recover, I see," she said acidly, tossing it back and forth from one hand to the other.

Riddle stared at her, his smug look fading. "Not long enough." Carefully, but with no additional facial expression whatsoever, Riddle gingerly eased himself upward to a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard, his head tilted upward, slightly toward the ceiling, his breath an increment or two harder from the effort.

"Why do you wear that all the time?" Hermione asked suddenly, unable to contain herself. When she and he had rolled into his room the night before, she had taken the liberty of removing his snow-damp robes, shoes, and tie before dumping him in his bed, but she had neither dared nor wanted to go any further. He was otherwise still fully clothed in the Hogwarts dark trousers and white oxford shirt, slightly unbuttoned so he could breathe.

Riddle swallowed, his head still tipped back against the headboard. His grey eyes were all that moved as he shifted his line of sight from the ceiling toward her silhouette. "Wear what?"

"Your uniform," she said, a thin, wry smile tugging at her lips. "Don't get me wrong, I'm a big believer in school spirit, too, but don't tell me that that thing is so comfortable that you can't ever take it off, because I won't believe you."

He closed his eyes and resumed his leaning position. "You seem to be an expert on the subject, Nefertari," he retorted in a suddenly stiff, toneless voice. "Why don't you tell me?"

As if an electric shock had run though her body, Hermione agitatedly realized that she was losing him, losing him far too quickly to his apathetic counterpart. _Oh no, not **this** game again!_ If she didn't want what little headway they had gained at Hogsmeade yesterday, whatever it was, to be all for naught… she was going to have to hit him again, hard. And soon.

Refocusing slightly, Hermione's eyes lingered on his dark hair. Usually perfectly combed to one side, the brownish-black mass was now mussed and messy. Several of the longer locks curled into the side of his face, while more still flew outwards like Harry's typically did on a good day… but Riddle's, miraculously, managed to remain far more tidy. Messy, but neat, if that was possible.

And Hermione found herself thinking, _He needs to wear it like that more often—_

_Hermione Granger Nefertari!_ The brunette mentally slapped herself. _Get back on track **NOW!**_

Taking a deep breath - suddenly more than a little disturbed at her obviously perverse mind - Hermione lowered her unyielding, pale brown stare at Riddle. It would be risky; she had absolutely no idea of how he would take it, none at all, and with his strong tendency to mood swing, he could go either way, but…

Before she lost her nerve, and with her rational mind mentally pounding one side of her brain with a broomstick, yelling _'STUPID! STUPID,'_ Hermione burst out, "I know what you did."

Immediately, Riddle stiffened, more than he already was, if that was possible, his back quickly resembling the headboard that he was resting against. His stormy eyes flashed open, and he swung his head to face her completely, his pale left cheek still leaning, a stark contrast, against the dark, polished mahogany wood surface.

To the casual observer, Tom Riddle's expression was that of the mildly interested, but Hermione was a girl with a mission. She knew what she was looking for… and, in the subtle contours of his face, she found it.

Alarm. Confusion. Dread. Anger. Panic.

"And… what, exactly… did I do?" Riddle finally asked, his initially worn-out voice suddenly fully alert, guarded. Wary.

Feeling surprisingly fearless, Hermione stared straight into Riddle's eyes, trying to decide which part of his life to hit him with, something that her "seerish eye" could have realistically "seen." The full story behind the Chamber of Secrets? The Diary? The way he was really Lord Voldemort? _Or…_ maybe how…

"You killed him," Hermione said simply, figuring Riddle would know full well who _'he' _was.

As expected, she wasn't wrong.

All the color drained from Riddle's already-ashen face, and, in his right hand, he balled the Slytherin green sheets so tightly that Hermione could actually see his knuckles turn white. To her immense relief, however, the anger also faded from his features. Now, he merely came off as exhausted, more exhausted than he had appeared in the carriage, even.

His eyes unfocused, he stared at a point just a heartbeat to the left of her face, somewhere on the eerily still, mountainously lofty drapes. "You know about that?" he eventually murmured in a low, incredulous voice.

Hermione almost smiled. She had hit a home run. "Yeah," she said softly.

Riddle eyes flickered unsteadily. Abruptly, he turned his head away from her, a sharp, jagged cough ripping through his chest. For a moment, he inhaled deeply, steadying his breath. Sounding more dead and impassive than she had ever heard him, he said flatly, "Well, you've been wondering about me for months, Nefertari, and there you have it. I'm a cold-blooded killer." His tone twisted bitterly. "Spread the word."

Silently, Hermione gazed at his rigid form, not quite knowing what to say. This reaction to her statement about his dead father was not what she had been expecting. From the stories Dumbledore and Harry had told her, she had always been under the impression that Riddle had been proud of his ability to kill and the number of people that he already had, but… this Riddle in front of her didn't seem to be that way at all.

With a jolt, she recognized that the feeling pulsing through her at that moment wasn't anger, anger at all the people Lord Voldemort had murdered—would murder in cold blood. No, but rather… the tiniest speck of pity for a seventeen-year-old boy named Tom Riddle flittered into her soul.

_Wait!_ _What am I **thinking?**_ Why was she becoming concerned for him when she should, in all reality and in all fairness, really, be relishing the fact that he was suffering?

But, in a neutral, non-accusatory tone, Hermione set the Slytherin pillow back on her lap and said softly, "Actually, I was rather hoping I could hear your side of the story before I made any assumptions about it."

A beat passed… and then another, and Hermione began to wonder if Riddle had even heard her at all.

She was about to ask him if he had even been listening to her when he said dully, "All right." Again, almost gritting out the words, he repeated, _"All right." _Sharply, Riddle swivelled his head back toward Hermione, his stormy eyes clouded, his voice suddenly toxic. "But remember, _you_ asked for it, Nefertari. Not me."

The Slytherin turned completely forward again, determinedly staring straight ahead rather than meeting Hermione's quizzical, rapt gaze. This was the first time Hermione had ever encountered a Tom Riddle who was unable to look her in the face.

"My mother was a witch; my father, a Muggle," Riddle began unenthusiastically, rolling the word _Muggle_ off his tongue as if it were dirty. He swallowed hard. "He didn't know about it. About the magical world, I mean — at least, not until just before I was born. After he found out… he wanted absolutely nothing to do with her… or me."

Hermione suddenly wondered what Draco, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Lavender would say if they knew she was sitting in Tom Riddle's bedroom, listening to the Heir of Slytherin intently like she was his own, personal psychiatrist.

Draco, smirking characteristically, would probably tell her to move a little bit closer, and even turn the charm up a notch; _I always knew you had it in you, Nef!_...

Harry, scowling murderously (at Riddle), would repeatedly shake his head, muttering, _I don't like this, Mione, I've already told you, this is **not** a good idea…_

Ginny, eyes flashing warningly, would drag Hermione out of the bedroom regardless of whether Riddle was there or not, hissing, _This is how he gets you, Mione, he draws you in and then he strikes!..._

Ron, smiling, absolutely pleased with himself, would tell her to keep it up; _Don't stop now, Mione, maybe he'll die sooner this way!_...

Lavender wouldn't even say anything, probably, she'd just run down to the Common Room, grab a chair, and drag it back upstairs so she could listen in herself.

"My mother died… shortly after I was born, from a curse that has voluntarily plagued our family for centuries," Riddle continued in a flat, lifeless voice, absently rolling and unrolling the top of the sheet. "It was the curse that killed her directly, but indirectly, it was my father's fault." He shot Hermione another intense look. "I… I can't explain it to you any more thoroughly than that, but it was."

Hermione didn't press him for details; she didn't feel she needed to. Once again, her stomach plummeted; it was so strange, knowing exactly what Riddle was talking about, even though he himself had no idea she knew. What had happened to Riddle's parents was clear to Hermione:

His mother had loved his father. That, alone, had sealed her fate.

His father had not returned the love. That had only had it worse.

And then the curse had killed his mother.

"My father knew I was alive; the Muggle orphanage where I had been born had contacted him about it." Still staring off into space, more bitterness filling his normally apathetic voice, Riddle angrily ground out, "And he was _perfectly content_ to leave me there." He paused briefly, then glanced back at Hermione. "Have you ever been to a Muggle orphanage, Nefertari? Do you even have the slightest idea of what it's like?"

Hermione only met his burning stare for a moment before she dropped her eyes to her lap, twisting her blue and bronze scarf around her left hand thoughtlessly. For once, she had no solid, assured response for his question, but she knew her history well enough to be aware that old-time orphanages were not the best places to live. "I imagine it's awful," she said quietly.

"_Very_ eloquently put, Nefertari, twenty points to Ravenclaw," Riddle carried on so quickly that he nearly cut her off, his voice laden with sarcasm. "It _is_ awful; it's more than awful, and, worse still, the other orphans there would ask—they would always ask—'What happened to _your_ father?' even though they knew the answer. Can you imagine what it felt like, being constantly reminded that your own father was still living but didn't give one bloody damn about you?"

Figuring that she wasn't really supposed to answer that, Hermione gazed steadily back at Riddle, at the shadows from the dreary bedroom's lack of light that partially obscured his face. Slowly, but rather confidently, she began to understand, to see why he became who he had become. Quietly, delicately, she asked, "What did they do to you, Tom?"

Sharply, in an instant, Riddle's eyes were on her again. "What did who do to me?"

Almost knowingly, Hermione continued to study him intently, the rest of the room almost fading into a blur until only she and he remained. "Everyone."

Riddle shrugged, but the movement was far less nonchalant than usual. Her eyes narrowing shrewdly, Hermione peered at him more scrupulously… and noticed—but just barely—that in his grey eyes were a rollercoaster of emotion that he had skilfully, extensively trained his face to conceal.

As if he knew the intentions behind her gaze, the Heir of Slytherin abruptly broke eye contact and tilted his head downward, suddenly finding his elegantly ornate silver and green comforter to be extremely fascinating. "I thought you were supposed to be able to see these things, Nefertari."

A raging ocean of sentiment was battling it out inside Hermione's eyes and was almost on the verge of spilling over... pity being in the lead and steadily winning control over the rational side of her mind. Gently, quietly, she said, "There are some things no one can see unless you allow them to." Uncrossing her arms, Hermione actually leaned forward, closer toward his bed, and repeated, "No one."

Listlessly, Riddle abandoned the comforter and doubtfully met her swirling, swimming eyes as she added softly, "Not even me."

Tom Riddle's face didn't change, it seemed; rather, he remained perfectly stoic…

Until his chin quivered, just a bit— but it was just enough.

Immediately, Riddle set his jaw stubbornly and blinked rapidly, ripping his gaze from hers. A jagged, hacking cough ripped through him, sending his shoulders careening forward. Clutching his stomach, he squeezed his eyes shut, the brutal cough relentlessly carrying on; the scene very similar to the one at the Friday Night Dance… and on the staircase outside the Head Boy room… and at Hogsmeade the day before.

Her heart pounding, her head spinning, Hermione jumped up, instinctively backing away from his bed, as if he—or she—was contaminated. "Listen," she began uncertainly, very correctly deducing that this conversation had drained Riddle completely—and not just physically, but emotionally, as he had nearly lost control over both areas in the past minute, "We… we don't need to talk about this now." Raising her voice so that he could hear it over his violent coughing, she added lamely, "Maybe some other time, okay?"

Riddle barely inclined his dark head. Instead, he crumpled flat onto his bed and slowly curled up into a painful-looking ball under the comforter, right hand held up to his mouth as a sort of buffer, still fighting another, more severe bout.

Hastily, Hermione took another rough, wobbly step backward, her breathing nearly as coarse and rapid as his. She figured that a speedy exit on her part might stop some of the hindering effects of the Anima curse. Maybe, if she hurried, she could make it to the Hospital Wing, bring back Madam L… Maybe she should have just taken him there in the first place—

Wait a second.

… Since when did she care so much?

… Since when had she even cared _at all?_

Torn, Hermione shoved all thought from her mind, and she tilted her curly, French-braided head down at Tom Riddle. It was one of the few times she didn't have to tilt her head backward to see him fully. And, although she was trying not to think, a part of her couldn't help but scream: _My God, he's only **seventeen** years old!_ _No one, **no one** should have to go through this kind of pain!_

Then again, he _was_ Tom Lord Voldemort Marvolo Riddle, but… In spite of that, in spite of everything that she was fighting for or against, Hermione hesitated only another moment before she crossed back to his bedside as quickly as she had left it, extended her left arm, reached down, and lightly placed her hand on Riddle's clenched one.

Almost simultaneously, Riddle sucked in an agonized gasp, his entire body stiffening. Her heart skipping a beat, Hermione closed her eyes, unable to even begin to describe the surge, the flood of overwhelming emotions she felt at being the source of all this pain… even pain at a young Lord Voldemort's expense.

Gently, determinedly, Hermione slipped her fingers all the way around his icy hand and soothingly, rhythmically stroked her thumb over his damp skin, the most peculiar sensation slipping over her. She felt almost like she was standing outside of herself; a mere spectator, watching as _someone else_ named Hermione Nefertari walked about Tom Riddle's room and held Tom Riddle's hand.

Her motor systems were obviously on auto pilot, there was no other explanation for it, she thought frenetically as she murmured, _"Sssssh,"_ carefully shifting his arm closer to his body and sitting lightly on the edge of the immense bed. "Breathe, Tom. _Breathe._ It'll be all right, it's almost over… Just breathe..."

Dear _God, _what was she doing? She most definitely was not thinking straight, that much was clear... It had been a late night: sneaking Riddle back into the castle and giving him as much of a magical energy check-up as she knew how to do in order to ensure he wasn't somehow on the verge of death, so that must have been the reason why her thoughts and actions had taken… taken such a strange turn…

Slowly but surely, the minutes passing at their own excruciatingly, mockingly unhurried rate, Riddle's coughing lessened and ceased, his heaving gasps becoming less jagged. With the rise and fall of his chest stabilizing, Hermione could actually feel, through the Slytherin's hand, his muscles begin to relax and loosen.

Her chest about to burst, Hermione released a lungful of air that she had been holding for so long, she couldn't even remember taking it in. It _whoooooshed_ out, and she gasped in another as Riddle weakly uncurled himself, his eyes still closed tightly, and stretched back down the length of the bed. He buried his head into one silver pillow, looking exhausted, any hope of preserving his neat hair all but flown out the window… but his left hand remained tense, unmoving in hers.

"Tom," Hermione said softly, her breath also returning to normal. She knew Riddle would respond to her when she said his given name. He always did, somehow.

A moment passed, but then Riddle vaguely cracked open his eyes, raising stormy grey pools to meet hers in silent question.

And Hermione had no idea—no bloody idea!— of what possessed her to do what she did next.

At first, she just assumed that she had completely lost her mind, but she later figured that she was subconsciously acting on Draco's earlier piece of advice:_ 'All you have to do is make Riddle fall in love with you, and all of our problems in this blasted world will be completely, absolutely solved!'_

In any case, Hermione gave Riddle a small, encouraging smile. "Hey, the Holiday Soiree is in two weeks, right?" she asked brightly, her voice a bit too cheerful to sound entirely normal. Without wasting a second, Rational Angel whipped the broomstick back out and began to beat the walls of Hermione's mind again. _OH MY GOD, HERMIONE, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?_

When Riddle warily nodded, though, a slightly perplexed expression on his face, Hermione determinedly continued in a kind of self-defiance, "You know, don't you think it would make sense for us, as the two Heads, to go together?"

Riddle's eyes, the only part of him to respond, widened just a little, but he seemed to be concentrating more on keeping his breathing even and controlled. Finally, he replied, his voice emerging as only a hoarse, pained whisper interrupted by several winces as his hand occasionally re-jerked around his stomach, "What would… du Lac say to… to that, Nefertari?"

Completely caught off guard by his question, Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and, before she could stop it, an actual, genuine laugh passed her lips. "Good Merlin, Riddle, how many times do I have to tell you? Draco and I _are_ not, _were_ not, and _never will be_ anything more than friends! He'll understand why I'm going with you—"

"And why _are_ you going with me?" Riddle interrupted penetratingly, the curse in no way inhibiting his ability to calculate situations. "Because it comes with the job?"

"Hey." Hermione evenly returned his burning gaze, but she was shocked at how, despite how thoroughly fatigued the rest of Riddle's body appeared to be, there was a steely, unbending strength in the iron grey of his eyes. "That's not fair, and you know it!"

Riddle didn't reply; rather, he stared straight ahead at the top of the canopy, as if the answer to his problems lay somewhere between the silver and green tassels a metre above him. Eventually, his line of sight travelled down to take in her, Hermione, still sitting on his bed, and her fingers, still entwined with his, still gently massaging the top of his hand. Glancing back upward, he choked out, "Whatever… you say… _Nefertari..."_

Suddenly, that same hand tightly squeezed hers, nearly cutting off her circulation, and Hermione saw him bite his lip hard, eyes closed, rapidly gasping in a sharp lungful of air. Her own breath hitched, and she let him hang on, her eyes saddening as he actually fought off another Anima attack. But when his grip loosened and his eyes flickered open, Riddle seemed more resolute and unwavering than she had ever seen him.

"All right," he said, sucking in a breath and swallowing hard. He nodded at her. "All right, let's… do it. Together."

_What?_ Hermione's tired mind caused her to stare at him in blank incredulousness, and his eyebrows shot up. "As in go together, Nefertari, good Merlin!" he exclaimed in scornful clarification, but a slight flush rose around the edges of his face as he muttered tiredly, "You are the Head Girl, Nefertari, please don't tell me you were thinking I meant anything other than that…"

"Erm.. No. Right. I have a legitimate excuse, you see; my mind isn't working properly because I stayed up all night taking care of _you_," Hermione countered in haughty reminder, her desperate attempt to cover up the fact that she really _had _been taken his words for their other meaning. All joking aside, though, she was stunned, _stunned_ that Tom Riddle would actually agree to spend more time than he absolutely had to with her… since he had to know full well that it could eventually cost him his life.

Unexpectedly, she was struck with the overpowering urge to rip her hand away and flee the bedroom.

"I—" Riddle winced, and he glanced at her. Hermione's astonishment only amplified when she saw a hint of uncertainty written across his ashen face. "Nefertari, I… I've never spoken to anyone else of what I have to you. Ever."

"I know," Hermione said softly, understandingly. "I won't tell, I promise."

She watched her hand reach out as if it had a life of its own, her mind undoubtedly still on some kind of perverse autopilot. Her fingers gently brushed some stray locks of sweaty, dark hair from his pale face, smoothing it back the way he usually wore it as best she could, her the back of her palm lingering lightly on his unmistakably feverish forehead.

His breathing had become less laboured the moment she laid her other hand on him, and she waited patiently as his eyelids drooped and closed. "I'll tell Madam L if you don't feel up for classes tomorrow, alright?" she whispered.

"Thanks," Tom murmured faintly, already in the shrouds of sleep. With something of a start, Hermione realized that that was exactly who he had become in her mind. Not Lord Voldemort, not Riddle, not even Tom Riddle.

Just Tom.

Slowly, carefully, she uncurled her fingers from around his and carefully eased herself off his bed. With one last glance at Tom's now completely serene, untroubled face, she bent down and scooped up her boots, reaching over to the armchair and sweeping up her discarded cloak, gloves, hat, and scarf. Treading silently across his floor to his door, she quietly pulled it open and shut, her exit as quick as she had earlier wanted it to be.

As soon as the latch clicked into place, Hermione turned around and leaned back against the door, blinking in the bright light streaming in the Common Room's west window. Wearily, she closed her eyes. She realized, now more than ever, that Tom was dangerously close to the curse's point of no return, so to speak.

The moment he fell, totally and completely, fell for _her_—her, and no one else—fell for her like he had never fallen for anyone else in his entire past, present, and future, all their problems would be, as Draco had put it, completely and absolutely solved. There would be no more pressure that they were their families', their friends', the Second War's last and only Hope.

No, with Tom Riddle's death date guaranteed as surely as the fact that Albus Dumbledore would become future headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Draco, Ron, and Lavender would save the future and everyone in it.

Hermione wondered why she wasn't as happy about that as she thought she would be.


	22. Have You Ever Had A RunIn With A Malfoy

_The moment he fell, totally and completely, fell for her—her, and no one else—fell for her like he had never fallen for anyone else in his entire past, present, and future, all their problems would be, as Draco had put it, completely and absolutely solved. There would be no more pressure that they were their families', their friends', the Second War's last and only Hope._

_No, with Tom Riddle's death date guaranteed as surely as the fact that Albus Dumbledore would become future headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Draco, Ron, and Lavender would save the future and everyone in it._

_Hermione wondered why she wasn't as happy about that as she thought she would be._

**Chapter 22: A Pureblood-Friendly Equation **

Monday, December 13, 1944

7:45 P.M.

"So… The way I see it, if we moved the start of the Soiree back to seven o'clock, there should be enough time for the moonlight magnolias that everyone's _so_ intent on having as decorations to fully open…"

"Seven o'clock?" Phyllis Hardiman mused to Hermione's left. The seventh-year Gryffindor prefect was sprawled out on her stomach next to Hermione on the floor of the Head Common Room.

The common room itself was in such an extreme state of disarray, Tom Riddle would have permanently exiled Hermione to the Ravenclaw dorms had he seen it: pages of note-scribbled parchment littered the ground, volumes of decoration charm instruction manuals were scattered across the mahogany carpet in front of Hermione and Phyllis, Soiree prefect working-rotation schedules were arbitrarily posted on the walls, and an empty box of Chocolate Chip Surprise Cookies with a tell-tale trail of crumbs leading to the two self-appointed Holiday Soiree Organization Heads was discarded by the merrily burning fireplace.

"That means… to keep the five-hour length plan, the Soiree would end at…." Phyllis worked out the math in her head and then cocked her head over toward Hermione, _"Midnight? _Do you think people will be willing to stay up that late?"

Hermione couldn't hold back a grin at the more conservative forties teenager. Her eyes twinkling in a tenuously Dumbledore-like manner, she lifted her wand and sent the cookie box careening into the fireplace without so much as a murmured spell.

"Phyll," the Head Girl began, turning back from the fire's delighted_CRACKLE!_ and burst of sparks, "this is not only going to be the _biggest_ formal social activity of the year, it's going to be the _only_ formal social activity of the year. Somehow, I think they'll be able to handle the late hours."

Hermione tilted her curly head toward the floor and rapidly began to flip though her stack of notes, the smile fading from her face and speedily replaced with an agitated frown. "I thought… I left it… right… _here…"_

Promptly dropping the three-inch pile of notes back on the carpet, Hermione glanced desperately at Phyllis. "Have you seen the Student Decoration Enchantment Contract? It's not here, so it must be in with your stuff somewhere."

"Sure, somewhere." Grimacing, the Gryffindor grimly surveyed the messy clutter of papers in front of them that closely resembled a tornado disaster area. "Little bugger just keeps slipping off."

"Doesn't want to make a visit to Dippet any more than I do; can't say I blame it." Rechecking the Soiree planning schedule that she had meticulously filled out two weeks prior, Hermione noticed with a jolt that the blaring, originally pink neon-flashing **_CONTRACT DUE_** appointment reminder had taken on an ominous red shade. "I need that as soon as possible; i.e. _right now."_

Exasperated, Phyllis threw her hands in the air. With an annoyed hiss, she reached down and snatched up one of numerous slips of thin parchment that the two girls had placed to one side of the Soiree information. Squinting at the writing on it through spectacled eyes and then smirking, she announced, "It seems we have an anonymous request—several, in fact—for floating mistletoe."

Hermione laughed and decided to place the Contract search on hold with the juvenile hope that it would somehow just pop up. She took her quill from behind her ear, business-like, and scribbled down a few additional notes, muttering, "Good Merlin, with the luck I'm having, one of those'll follow me around until it catches me the only moment I happen to be alone with Draco…"

"Her_mione!"_ A strangled sound passed Phyllis' lips, and for a single, frantic instant Hermione thought that the Gryffindor had choked on the last Chocolate Chip Surprise. A quick glance, though, told Hermione that Phyllis had only unnecessarily gasped. Somewhat dramatically. "Draco_du Lac,_ that gorgeous male specimen? Most girls would _die_ to kiss him!"

"That'd be rather idiotic of them, then," Hermione threw out absently, still writing. "I mean, after sleeping with the bloke for two months, I'm still alive, and I actually think it's starting to get a bit old… _Joking,_ Phyll, whoa there, just kidding!" she added rapidly and considered smacking herself in the head when the scandalized ashy-blond-haired girl's mouth dropped open like it had an anchor attached to it, an expression of pure shock exploding onto her face.

_Yeah, that is **exactly** what I need to go spreading around the school!_

"Merlin, don't do that to me! _Ever again!"_ Phyllis let out a huge breath, the bug-eyed look fading as she handed Hermione a slim, battered book entitled: Making The Band: How To Charm Music Out Of Almost Anything. "Anyway, do you really think you can handle these spells? This book and the other ones you told me to get were written for professional party planners, you know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, sorry about that, Phyll, my bad," Hermione replied automatically, sounding more distracted than apologetic. She dug into her dark robe pocket and whipped out her wand. "And, actually, the motions on the enchantment spells are all rather elementary, once you get the hang of it, at least… which is why I suppose I should start figuring out how to do them now…"

Flipping open the manual, Hermione began to intently study the illustrations on the second page.

_CRRRREEEEEEEEEEK!_

At the sound of the faulty portrait hole opening, Phyllis let out a muffled shriek and leapt a good half-metre into the air, haphazardly colliding with Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione, on the other hand, had grown so accustomed to the bothersome scraping noise that normally accompanied Tom Riddle's entrance that she didn't even phase, muttering and moving her wand experimentally. The brunette _did_ jump, however, when a high-pitched voice that definitely did _not_ belong to Tom Riddle exclaimed, "Whoa, Hermione! You really need to get that portrait oiled or something!"

Phyllis was the first to turn over onto her side and survey this unexpected intruder. "Oh, hi Lavender."

"_Lavender?"_ Hermione echoed incredulously, actually dropping her wand and turning on her side to see for herself the Hufflepuff that excitedly danced into the Head Common Room. Her dumbfounded latte eyes gawked incredulously at the sun-streaked blond. "How did you get in here?"

"Oh." Lavender shrugged offhandedly, coming up to stand behind Hermione and Phyllis so Hermione had to crick her neck in a nearly impossible one hundred eighty degree turn in order to see her. "Just ran into Snake Eyes in the hall—"

" 'Snake Eyes' ?" Phyllis interrupted interestedly, a gossipy gleam in _her_ eyes, She dropped the mistletoe note back into the Suggestion Box stack as if the mistletoe idea had suddenly become Old News.

"Lav," Hermione simultaneously warned, her neck starting to ache as she turned again and shot a glare at Lavender.

"Oh,_all right."_ Lavender crossed her arms stubbornly, rolling her azure eyes, and shoved one foot in front of her stand-offishly, jutting her hip out to the other side. "I ran into _Riddle_ in the hallway, and he said he'd get your obnoxious knight in shining armour to open up for me."

Choking back a laugh at Lavender's description of Sir Cadogan, Hermione concurrently tried to quell feelings of total shock. _Oh, sod it—_ Shoving her wand into her pocket, she snapped Making The Band: How To Charm Music Out Of Almost Anything shut and flipped onto her back to sceptically stare up at Lavender without it being a pain in the neck. Literally. "He just… _voluntarily…_ let you in here?"

Lavender frowned at Hermione. Her long, oval face appeared abnormally flat from Hermione's point of view from the floor. "Well, no, I sort of asked him first."

"That's beside the point," Hermione muttered in disbelief, the words of Tom's original agreement with her,_ 'I will ask that **our** common room be used for official business **only,** and **not** for any kind of the social gatherings that you apparently seem to thrive on,'_ reverberating in the depths of her mind. Still completely astonished, the brunette shook her head and flipped back over onto her stomach. "Hm. That's interesting."

"How are you two, by the way?" Phyllis asked owlishly, peering at Hermione though her peripheral vision without directly staring at her.

Hermione arched a thin eyebrow and glanced over at the expectant Gryffindor, not especially wanting to bring up what Ginny had begun to call 'The Tom Riddle Situation.' "What do you mean, _'how are we' _?"

Phyllis shrugged, shoving her wire-rimmed glasses on top of her head and tiredly rubbing her eyes. "I just haven't seen you two talking… that much… lately," she yawned hugely. "Not even arguing, and that is quite a record, if you don't mind me saying."

"No, I don't mind…" Hermione frowned briefly, feeling annoyance… and something else… flicker through her. Without dwelling on it, she doggedly dove back into her sea of papers and resumed the search for the lost Student Decoration Enchantment Contract. _Ooooo…_ if she didn't find that soon…

Like a flash, a wave of brilliancy stuck her. Grinning, she reached around for her wand, preparing to Summon the elusive Contract out of the chaos, when, against her will, her mouth added, "I sort of think he's avoiding me."

It sounded so much worse when she actually said, out-loud, the notion that had been running through her mind for the past week, Hermione thought. Not that she could blame him. _She_ wouldn't want to be around someone who caused her to be in physical pain during every waking, breathing moment of her life, either.

"You know," Phyllis continued to muse—a dangerous thing, Hermione had come to discover. "Riddle would be quite handsome, wouldn't he, if it weren't for his rather nonexistent personality? Oh, don't give me that _look,_ Hermione," she added when Hermione glanced at her in surprise at the comment. Most other girls in the school tended to overlook Tom Riddle's dark side when drooling over his undeniably good looks. "I might be a female, but, like you, I'm not an idiot. I can see that behind all that charm he throws at the professors, there's something darker, colder underneath. Rather like the ice man. It really comes out when he's talking to you, it's unbelievable."

"Unbelievable," Hermione echoed, rather surprised at her own morose tone. She felt slightly miffed that Phyllis had felt it necessary to voice her last comment. Blankly, the brunette dangled her wand in front of her, staring at it as if she had never seen one before, vaguely wondering why she had gotten it out in the first place.

"But, you two do look _so_ cute together—when you're not having a row, at least—" Phyllis jammed her quill behind her ear thoughtfully. "Don't you think, if you could somehow just…" She raised her hands in a helpless shrug, searching for her next words,_ "thaw _him, or something…"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up,. She wisely chose to ignore the 'you two do look_so_ cute together' part of Phyllis' observation, and she rolled her eyes over toward the Gryffindor. "And how do you propose I thaw him, Phyll? With a blowtorch?"

"Hermione, I need to talk to you!" Lavender, who had been impatiently bouncing from foot to foot as Hermione and Phyllis discussed Tom, burst out as if she hadn't seen Hermione in ten years. "I really, really think you should look at this."

Almost relieved to get off the subject of Tom Riddle, Hermione turned her attention toward the blond as she held up a slender, yellowed but still very black book enstamped with the glittering red heading Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques.

Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques?

She briefly wracked her brain, searching through her rather rusty French for a rough translation of the title.

_French?_ she thought balefully. The last time she could recall speaking French fluently was on her last trip to Paris… the summer before she had discovered that she was a witch. And, in what could be called a magical transition, _Poof!_ Exit French stage left, enter Latin stage right. _Why… French?_

Finally, she managed to string a phrase together: A Killer Love and Other Once-Tragic Enchantments.

Confused — not something she often relished being —Hermione squinted up at her friend, indistinctly remembering that Lavender had once claimed that she liked to read romances in the original language of love. "Lavender, _what—"_

"ACCIO BLOODY DECORATION CONTRACT!"

In utter frustration, Phyllis had risen to her knees and flung the spell in the general direction of the disarray of weathered books and scattered parchment on the floor… and a moment and several flying papers later, a crisp, official looking document soared into the Gryffindor's hand.

"Got it!" Phyllis announced triumphantly. Her victory was short-lived, however, and she shot Hermione a slightly jaded expression. "You'd never think we're going to be graduating from here in half a year; why on earth didn't we think of that earlier?"

Hermione reddened slightly, remembering that the idea to Summon the Contract had entered her head… and flown out just as quickly. "We were distracted by boy-talk, I'm ashamed to admit." But so relieved at seeing the contract was Hermione, one would have thought she'd just seen a written record from the future telling her that all the time travellers' efforts would not be in vain. Hand over her heart, positively beaming, Hermione reached up and plucked the contract from Phyllis' offering hand. "And thank you Phyllis, I need to give this to Dippet by eight o'clock tonight or he promised to demote me."

"Lovely thought, that."

"Oh, don't I know it—"

"Hermy," Lavender insisted stubbornly. Her voice rose to a whine as she urgently jabbed a slender, manicured fingernail at her French book's unmistakable, almost blood-red writing. "I think this might be important!"

Three years and Hermione still winced at Lavender's nickname for her, and she quickly felt the weight of the few remaining, guaranteed-to-be intense school days/Holiday Soiree preparation days piling up on her. Hermione hated to be snappish, especially with her friends, but… "Not now, Lav, _please!"_

Even as the words left her mouth, the nauseous, suffocating sensation of being overwhelmed attempted a coup of her senses. Dropping the Decorations Contract in front of her, Hermione gently massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers. The last thing she needed now was to be force-fed another one of Lavender's juicy, cheesy love stories.

Another of Lavender's whiny, earsplitting _"Heeerrrrmy" _'s, however, and Hermione just couldn't stand it any longer. Trying to ignore the pulsing, pounding throbbing in her head, she blew a curly lock of hair out of her face and waved Lavender toward the coffee table. "Thanks, Lav, just stick it over there, all right? I'll look at it later."

"Okay, good." Executing a truly spectacular ballet leap over the Holiday Soiree Disaster Area, Lavender weaved around Hermione's favourite leather sofa, dumped the book on the small, mainly ornamental stand—the Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques's yellowed pages sending out a billow of dust in the process— and picked her way back over to Hermione and Phyllis. "What are you working on?" she asked brightly.

"Erm…" Hermione absently scratched the side of her cheek with her quill, wrinkling her nose as her eyes skimmed over the clauses of the Decoration Contract, "Holiday Soiree prep and the like… since the thing _is_ in exactly six days—Good Merlin. Phyll, we only have _six_ days to turn the Great Hall into a holiday, winter wonderland masterpiece!"

"Stop, don't make it sound dramatically important like that; it just makes it worse," Phyllis muttered bleakly, slamming face-down into the carpet, her glasses flying, and miserably covering her head with her arms.

"Oh, you'll do it, I know you can." Lavender airily waved her hand with an innocent, confident assurance as only Lavender had, and Hermione, for one, wished that she had the blonde's undying faith. Jiggling from foot-to-foot with pent-up energy, she added cheerfully, "And Hermione, if you need any FA— Fashion Assistance, you can add that to your Head Girl lingo — with your dress robes, just let me know. I'll have you fixed up and gorgeous before you can even say 'Don't, Lav!' "

Hermione choked, biting back a cough and a grimace. "Don't worry, Lav; if, for some ungodly reason, I do need… _FA_… I promise that you will be the first person I call."

"Deal." Grinning, Lavender bent down and critically eyed the Student Decoration Enchantment Contract. She squinted at the first paragraph. "Does that thing really give you to power the decorate the entire Great Hall however you'd like?" she asked, sounding fascinated. She peered at the parchment with newfound respect.

"Yes, and it also gives the administration the power to suspend/expel me if I mess up in any way, shape, or form," Hermione said darkly, warily eyeing the blank line under which the words _Head Boy/Girl Signature_ were scripted. Holding her quill gingerly, as if she were about to sign her own death warrant, Hermione rapidly wrote her name next to Tom Riddle's, and, just as quickly, shoved the document away from her. "Well, at least that business is over with—"

"Erm, Hermione?" Phyllis interrupted urgently, a touch of panic to her voice. "Did you say Dippet wanted that contract by eight?"

"That's what I said…" Hermione trailed off anxiously, fearing the worst. Snatching up the Decoration Contract, her heart thudding violently in her chest like it was already anticipating the mad rush to come, she immediately demanded, "What time is it?"

Phyllis again leaned far over to her right, glancing around the lurking Lavender at the grandfather clock on the opposite wall, probably to make sure she wasn't reading the hands incorrectly. "Seven fifty-seven and forty-five seconds."

_Oh God. I'm dead._

Hermione literally leapt straight to her feet. She couldn't recall being this agile since the desperate Battle of Hogsmeade in her modern seventh year - the desperate battle for her life, Harry's life, and the life of any other student in the general vicinity. In one fluid movement, she spun around and bounded to the portrait hole, her robes billowing like giant parachutes behind her as she hysterically yelled over her shoulder, "I've got two minutes to save my Head Girl-ship!"

"You'll never make it!" Lavender hollered encouragingly after the disappearing brunette, cupping her hands around her mouth to amplify her voice.

By this time, though, Phyllis had jumped up as well. Spying the _Proposed Enchantment List_ Hermione had painstakingly catalogued to show the Headmaster, the Gryffindor grabbed it, shouted, "Hey, Hermione, you forgot the list!" and abandoned the messy Head common room, making a mad dash for the closing portrait hole.

After a beat, Lavender threw up her hands and took up the pursuit with Phyllis. "Hey! Wait up!"

Almost a month would pass before Lavender's tattered black and red "romance" book even re-entered Hermione's consciousness.

**Monday, December 20, 1944**

**6:43 P.M.**

"I need the dragon's tooth. Now, right now, hurry it up. Do you even_have_ the dragon's tooth, Nefertari?… Give it to me. Good. And the Basilisk scale… Before we all die of _old age,_ Nefertari—"

With immense restraint, Hermione held back a growl and shoved the rough, scaly patch into Calugala Malfoy's waiting hand, simultaneously shooting mental arrows into both her Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and Tom Riddle: the former, for assigning this stupid group project on exploring the links between potion-making and defending against the Dark Arts, the latter, for being in the Hospital Wing so often that she was left to deal the pompous blond alone.

Hermione cursed the fates that had removed one Malfoy from her life, so to speak, only to replace him with another one.

Calugala held up the faded, yellowish-green basilisk scale, squinting, and critically examined it under the dim spare Potions classroom lighting. "Well, well, well. I _am_ impressed. How _did_ you manage to get this, Nefertari?"

This time, Hermione let out a guttural rumble without thinking twice about it, her wand hand twitching. _You have no _idea_ what Harry went through to get that, jerk, and I'm not about to tell you!_

"Malfoy, just put it in before I pour the entire potion _in your lap,"_ she snapped waspishly, already irritated that her last day of classes—the last week, really— before the Holiday break had been dragging on… and on… and _on…_

Yes, tomorrow would be the last, exhausting round of Great Hall decorating; yes, the Holiday Soiree was tomorrow night; yes, she was going with Tom Riddle; yes, she had absolutely no idea what she was going to wear… but her mind was too numb to think that far ahead, and now she was trying to get through minutes rather than days.

It was a task far easier said than done.

"And risk your grade, Nefertari?" Calugula rhetorically asked with a signature Malfoy smirk and that conceited Malfoy confidence. "I think not."

_Is that so? Just watch. I can still happily sacrifice my grade to screw yours,_ she mused in a very Ron-ish line of thought as the blond added the basilisk scale to the bubbling, smoking cauldron, flourishing his hand in a ballerina-like way that was not at all becoming to the lofty, well-built Quidditch captain.

Hermione's eyes followed the scale's demise as it sunk into the thick green goop. She had hardly made substantial contact with Draco's grandfather: only ten hour-long meetings to formulate the Silviarius Potion, an advanced mix utilized in wiping memories without the sticky side-effects that the Obliviate charm often created. Even that amount of time, really, was more than she would have originally needed to sped with him, but Malfoy had elongated the process by "accidentally" starting the potion with far more base than they needed or could legally have.

Despite this lack of time spent, however, there was no doubt in her mind that she despised Calugala Malfoy, much more so than she had ever Tom Riddle, even.

It had taken Hermione several weeks of pondering to figure out exactly why she felt so much more uncomfortable around Malfoy than a young Lord Voldemort. She finally came to a reasonable conclusion: Whereas the Tom of here and now seemed to only draw his power from knowledgeable assuredness and quiet, cold detachment, plain and simple, Malfoy drew his power from a creepy, bossy, obnoxiously loud arrogance that easily managed to top even Draco's during his earlier years…

And it was inbred conceit that Hermione wasn't entirely comfortable being around in a lonely, badly-lit, rather dodgy and dungeon-like room.

"Well, unfortunately for us, that's the last step," she reported sarcastically. She forced a note of cheerfulness into her voice, but she felt a blissful relief like no other airily drift through her senses. She snapped Malfoy's Potions textbook shut and pushed it away from her as if it were diseased. "Simmer for three weeks and test."

A few muttered spells and a dismissive sweep of his wand later, Malfoy quickly cleaned up the surrounding area of desks in the small, alcove-like spare Potions classroom, his apparent familiarity with cleaning spells surprising Hermione as he sent the simmering cauldron floating off toward a holding shelf lined with steaming, nearly identical black cauldrons. As it touched down securely, a worn label beneath it scrawled the words: _C. Malfoy, H. Nefertari, T. Riddle; Silviarius._

And Malfoy's comment came out of nowhere.

Turning back toward her, but still with a desk between them, he declared with a smug snicker, "I say we make the Half-Blood drink it first. You know, make sure it won't backfire on us. After all, he's missed so much of the other work that we had to make up for him, and he's already sick anyway, so it shouldn't change much."

Smirking, Malfoy leaned across the desk and whispered conspiratorially, _"I've_ heard that he's going to die."

Rather unexpectedly, a blast of anger pulsed though her stomach, and, almost immediately, Hermione's eyes narrowed threateningly.

_Whoa… cool it, Hermione,_ she mentally soothed._ It's just an act. It **has** to be an act. After all, _she reminded herself somewhat bitterly, _Malfoy's been Tom Riddle's public relations since Tom Riddle formed the Death Eaters. _

Still, though, Hermione had to bite her tongue before she retorted in a chilled, frosty voice, "No, we will not make _Tom Riddle_ drink it first. We already said that we'd drink it together, under the supervision of Ricktor, no less, so he'll only remove the last two minutes of our memories and grade us on the results. And that's what we're going to stick to, Malfoy, we have no reason not to…"

A smirk to rival Calugala's own broke out onto her face, and, in a voice saturated with sweetness, she delicately added, "Unless you think you added the ingredients wrong?" Hermione raised an eyebrow suggestively, then shook her head vehemently as if to disagree with herself. "But… _No,_ that doesn't sound like the work of the great and brilliant Calugala Malfoy!"

Malfoy's expression darkened considerably. Tilting his head at her as if he had just figured out some great secret, he took a giant step around the desk. Instinctively, Hermione took a step backward, her petite figure dwarfed by the towering, scowling Quidditch captain. Subconsciously, her hand inched closer toward her right pocket. And her wand.

"Nefertari, with a completely untainted Pureblood line like yours, you have all the opportunity on the _planet,"_ Malfoy began, a touch of exaggerated concern in his mocking voice. With a sneer and a trace of dark humour, he continued, curling his lip in distaste, "And, yet, you're defending some dirt-poor, half-blood street rat?"

_Defending_him? Was that what she was doing?

Hermione's right eyebrow arched dramatically—disbelievingly—at this unforeseen turn of events. _Either Malfoy is a damn good actor,_ she thought furiously, _or he's bloody well serious! _

Malfoy shook his head at her condescendingly, tisking like a severely disappointed professor and dangerously reminding Hermione of the old Draco Malfoy, the not-yet-turned-and-rather-evil Draco Malfoy. "And all this time, Nefertari, I thought you had better taste than filth like that."

But weren't Tom Riddle and Calugala Malfoy were supposed to be working together?

After each Death Eater meeting, it seemed, Harry would always manage find Hermione and whisper conspiratorially, "They're at it again, Mione! I can see those two blokes up in the head seats the entire time, Malfoy and him, like two peas in a pod, they are. Discussing, arranging, not telling the rest of the Death Eaters, including me, the whole story. Even if Riddle's put a Muffler on his voice, he can't hide, and he's still obviously in on a larger plan with Malfoy!"

_Obviously,_ her mind echoed blandly.

But it didn't make any sense! None of this made sense! If Malfoy was indeed a staunch disciple of the Heir of Slytherin, would he still be denouncing Tom Riddle—in all sincerity, it appeared—as magical filth, even if it all _was_ an extremely skilled act? Rather, wouldn't Malfoy want to…

Well, she didn't quite know how his twisted mind worked, but wouldn't he try to draw in more pure-blooded followers or something of the like?

Hermione had no idea, and the entire not-knowing bit was absolutely killing her.

In the split-second that her mind had been feverishly working on overdrive whilst her face was positively glowering at Calugala Malfoy, the brunette decided to base all her subsequent responses on the rather far-out assumption that, in one way or another, Tom and Malfoy weren't working together. That, somehow, Malfoy _didn't_ yet know that Tom Riddle was the Heir of Slytherin, was probably even the leader of the Death Eaters.

Of course, she didn't see how any of that could actually be possible, but just supposing…

"Malfoy, darling," Hermione cooed softly, her voice emerging low, recognizably calm, and strangely dangerous. "I suppose I expected a bit _too_ much from you, and for that I apologize." She eyed the blond cagily, partially surprised that she had opted to stand here and single-handedly argue it out with a known Death Eater. "I see now that being non-prejudiced is just a step above your level. That's fine; I understand that it… _runs_ in the family."

Amused at the general truth in her last line, she smirked, but inwardly, she was both shocked and appalled at how quickly her attitude had changed so quickly from a furious, shaking anger to the unruffled, chilly aura of supremacy it was now. Even Malfoy's taken aback expression testified that he didn't think she'd have that kind of thing in her.

Suddenly, Hermione realized why her voice seemed so familiar, yet so not her.

She sounded exactly like Tom Riddle did when he was fuming.

Unpredictably, though, this fact somehow emboldened her, and Hermione actually took a menacing step _toward_ Malfoy, any fear she may have had of the blond freezing into pure, icy abhorrence.

"You know, it's people, people just like you who will bring ruin upon this world," she hissed disgustedly, jabbing a finger toward his chest. "And what's scary, what's _really_ scary, is how you'll do it with delight! But, just remember, Malfoy," she continued with a small, subdued smile, "when all's said and done, no matter how expensive your manor will be or how many centuries back you can trace the bloodline of your future wife, Merlin bless her soul—"

Hermione's fingers scrambled under her collar and yanked out the Amulet of Eras, and she dangled the priceless jewel in front of his nose, her glittering gaze never leaving Malfoy's furious blue eyes, _"You_ aren't going to be the one with the full power of the most ancient bloodline in the world stored in a rock around your neck."

Stepping back, not wanting to spend more time closer than seven feet to him than she had to, Hermione smiled inwardly, a mite proud she hadn't collapsed under Malfoy's killer glare and faintly relieved that he hadn't gone off his rocker and attacked her. Malfoy himself, though, appeared less impressed, and a moment later he seemed to shatter free of his flabbergasted shell. "All superior bloodline arguments aside, Nefertari…"

Leisurely, a sinister, knowing sneer spread across his maliciously pleased face. "As a fellow, concerned Pureblood, I'm certain you won't mind if I give you a simple, Pureblood-friendly equation to keep you on the right track… before you and your Slytherin-reject Head Boy do something rash_…_ like _breeding."_

The moment the words exited Malfoy's mouth, a cold rage like none she had ever felt before spread through Hermione's body, through each bone and each joint, until she felt, through all the frigidness, like every inch of her body was ablaze… and it wasn't just because Malfoy happened to bring up herself, Tom Riddle, and the word_breeding_ in the same sentence.

Malfoy, the moron, simply smirked haughtily. As if he could see he had touched a nerve, he dipped his platinum head a bit toward her in comically conspiratorial fashion, and, in a deliberately derisive tone, he whispered, "Blood… plus mud… always equals _trash."_

For one paused moment, a single, split-second in time, Hermione simply gaped at the conceited, self-righteous blond.

After all her years, all her years of being differentiated as a_Muggle-born,_ _Mudblood - _or worse, even - She still couldn't quite accept that so many people sadistically believed in that sort of rubbish. She had prayed that the world was better than that. Merlin, she hadn't even heard Tom Riddle preaching pureblood supremacy, and she had thought that he, of all people, would be the ultimate Muggle-hater…

Until now.

Right now, Calugala Malfoy was the solitary, flagrantly glaring, brilliantly flashing name on the top of her Most-Hated List.

Hermione didn't even care that Malfoy's comment had most likely been aimed at Tom Riddle, the one, the only Tom Riddle who grew up to murder her parents.

Time resumed, and Hermione snapped.

_How… how **dare** he say that about… about **anyone!**_

Her latte eyes flashing in utter and complete loathing, the brunette suddenly shuddered, her right arm jerking. Trying to appear innocent, fighting to keep all traces of abomination out of her voice, Hermione exclaimed in feigned dismay, "Oh… Oh my God!" Another twinge went up her side, and, as if she were a fisherman dangling bait, she limply shook her arm around, then her leg. "My entire right side is just… _twitching!"_

Grudgingly, Malfoy edged closer like Hermione had expected him to, so close that she could actually feel nauseating hot air coming from his mouth. Studying her critically, suspiciously, like he didn't quite believe her—_What do you know, he **is** a_ _smart boy—_Malfoy positioned his hand so it was threateningly suspended over the tip of his wand. "Looks _perfectly_ fine to me, Nefertari."

Following his appraising eyes as they raked up and down her body again, only this time far less critically and far more for his own personal entertainment, Hermione bit back a snarl, momentarily wrestled her arm back to her side, and shook her head.

"No! Malfoy, this is an extremely serious condition!" she insisted, trying to keep her voice level rather than steadily rising in panic like it wanted to. Swiftly, she danced back a step as Malfoy took an equally impressive one toward her, a bit too energetically for her liking, the ravenous, pleased leer on his face a clear warning that he was getting far too many diabolical ideas, and suddenly… he_ smiled. _

Hermione didn't even have to pretend to twitch as a chill like no other tingled down her spine. Seeing an honest-to-God, malevolent smile on Calugala Malfoy's face while she was _alone_ with him in a deserted, dingy Potions classroom, on the last day of classes, with all the professors off at their after-school mid-term Christmas Party, a 'Where're you going to run, Nefertari?' taunt in Malfoy's leering eyes…

It was, without a doubt, one of the most bone-chilling images she had ever seen.

"I mean," the brunette went on hurriedly, steeling herself for what was about to come, "Sometimes I just get these…_ spasms—"_

Unexpectedly, Hermione planted her petite self firmly into the ground, hauled her right arm backward, flung herself into the swing, and slammed her fist to meet Calugala Malfoy's oncoming, smirking face with every single ounce of _Mudblood _that she had gotten at Hogwarts for seven long years.

_CRACK!_

Immediately, two things happened simultaneously: Malfoy let out a heated howl, the force of Hermione's punch actually sending his head—and the rest of the body connected to it—careening backward… and a blinding, burning pain erupted in Hermione's right hand.

Gasping, Hermione yanked her hand back, shook it out furiously, and bit her lip so hard she tasted the bitter tang of blood, jumping around in a small circle. A shot of fight-or-flight adrenaline surged through her body, though, as Malfoy stumbled back toward her in a furious haze of pain.

Almost as quickly as her punch, Hermione's right foot instinctively lashed out in a lightning move, catching Malfoy squarely where it mattered, so to speak. "Whoops, there it goes _again,_ the blasted thing—"

When his deep, twisted voice emitted a tortured _"ARRRRGGGH!",_Hermione nimbly leapt a step closer to her escape exit - the closed classroom door - and two steps farther away from her would-be assailant as Calugala Malfoy actually collapsed to his knees, dark blood dripping from his nose, his mouth - _everywhere,_ it seemed…

Her motion, however beneficial to her, immediately caught Malfoy's eye, and his fogged, pain-laced vision seemed to clear considerably. Lividly, he bellowed, "NEFERTARI, I don't care if you're the bloody _Dark Queen_ of Salazar Slytherin himself, you are a dead woman!", his face contorted like an angry bull and turning a deep crimson to match his bloodied mouth, while his hand simultaneously closed around his pocketed wand…

And froze, staring down the length of Hermione's own coolly poised wand, which was ominously hovering only inches from his bloody nose.

"Careful, Malfoy, careful," Hermione said softly, lethally. Still surprised at how much her voice's mannerisms had regressed to sounding like Tom Riddle's. "My wand's already twitching, and by now you should know what comes after that."

_Maybe the only way to properly deal with a true Slytherin is to act like one yourself,_ she thought vaguely, mildly shocked that her nearly broken hand—and her unutterably perplexed mind—had managed to stay steady throughout the entire episode.

Malfoy let out a feral, enraged growl, a noise that, on any other day, may have struck fear into even the bravest of hearts… but, today, at least, Hermione's gaze fearlessly bore into his eyes, and, despite her quite possibly near-death experience, she resisted the sudden urge to smirk as she noticed the whites around his Malfoy blue irises began to take on a definite red tinge.

"Fifty points from Slytherin for blatantly threatening the Head Girl to the point where she was forced to defend herself," Hermione deadpanned, already backing up the few metres or so toward the corridor door, her wand steadily trained on the dip between Malfoy's eyes. She forced a thin smile to her face. "I should deduct more, Malfoy, much more… but, seeing as it _is_ going to be Christmas, I'm going to let you off easy. Consider it my Christmas gift to you, from the kindness of my own heart."

As he spluttered furiously, Hermione's back collided with smooth wood. She was finally at the door, thank Merlin, she was slipping it open with her free hand…

"Oh, and Malfoy?" the brunette added coldly, taking one last look at Calugala Malfoy's purely livid, almost purple face, her mark clearly left on his jaw line and all down the front of his robes. "As far as I'm concerned, the only person in our group with defective breeding is _you."_

And Hermione slammed the classroom door with a _BANG! _before the anger in Malfoy's eyes could explode out the end of his wand.

So much for granted did Hermione take the Amulet of Eras that she never once glanced down at it during her fire fight with Malfoy, never once thought on the fact that its smooth, faceted surface was slightly warm, too warm for any normal day.

And, as she furiously stormed through the dimly lit, abandoned, drippy side corridors, then up the bright, portrait lined staircases toward the Hospital Wing, still nursing her injured punching hand, she never once noticed that— illuminating from the very depths of the giant crimson ruby itself—the Amulet of Eras had taken on a faint, blood-red glow.


	23. Have You Ever Had A Change of Mind

**A/N:** Hey guys! OVER 500 REVIEWS! I am OVERWHELMED! Thank you all SO much for your continual support…yall are great! I think this is a pretty important chapter because it's a bit of a turning point for Hermione. She starts to rebel. Also, a bit more AU from the vision of Tom's school years that Jo paints, just so you know. Happy reading : - )

Once again, hi to all my newer readers, and everybody who keeps coming back and reviewing! **THANKS EVERYBODY:-)**

_And Hermione slammed the classroom door with a BANG! before the anger in Malfoy's eyes could explode out the end of his wand._

_So much for granted did Hermione take the Amulet of Eras that she never once glanced down at it during her firefight with Malfoy, never once thought on the fact that its smooth, faceted surface was slightly warm, too warm for any normal day._

_And, as she furiously stormed through the dimly lit, abandoned, drippy side corridors, then up the bright, portrait lined staircases toward the Hospital Wing, still nursing her injured punching hand, she never once noticed that— illuminating from the very depths of the giant crimson ruby itself—the Amulet of Eras had taken on a faint, blood-red glow._

**Chapter 23: On The Verge (of Falling Hard)**

Monday, December 20, 1944

7:11 P.M.

Hermione was seething as she slammed the Potions classroom door shut and vehemently set off for the Hospital Wing. Her entire right hand felt like someone had shoved it into a fireplace. On top of that, the little bugger was throbbing for all it was worth, except for the knuckles, in which she had, to both her relief and dismay, lost all feeling. From the unusual swell on top of her hand, she figured that her skin had bloated to an ugly black and blue, but under the crimson red covering of Malfoy's blood, which she couldn't bring herself to look at fully, she couldn't be sure.

Choking back fuming tears, Hermione gathered a fortitude she didn't realize she had and shoved the pain to a back burner, turning the throbbing down to as low drone as she could. _There are bigger things going on here that you have to worry about now, Mione! Your hand can wait! _

Her bookbag, slung securely over her shoulder, took a wild swing as Hermione sharply turned a corner, her thoughts jumbled. From Day One, it had been clear to everyone involved that Calugala Malfoy and Tom Riddle weren't exactly the best of friends, as Hermione had rather stupidly expected them to be…but the reasons behind their existing enmity had never been clear.

Now, facing the truth in all its ugliness, Hermione felt like a complete idiot for having never seen it before.

She had always assumed that Tom Riddle, being the Heir of Slytherin and all that was Dark and Dodgy, would have just as much, if not more authority than the Malfoys, or the Blacks, or the Lestranges… or any of the other powerful Slytherin-bred families, for that matter.

But, quite obviously, no one in this time knew that Tom was the Heir, and before she had left, Dumbledore had told the time travelers that many hadn't even realized Tom was who he was until after he had completely transformed into Lord Voldemort…and, by that point, not many people even knew he was Tom Riddle.

And that brought up the one fact that dispelled Hermione's entire theory into a pile of rubbish: Tom Riddle, or someone who Harry certainly thought was Tom Riddle, had recently formed the Death Eaters with the unbroken help and full support of Calugala Malfoy.

Once again, Hermione's mind nimbly ran through all the facts Dumbledore had given her on the Heir of Slytherin. According to Dumbledore, Tom Riddle hadn't made the full plunge to the Dark Arts until after he had graduated, and he had only formed the Death Eaters afterthat…at least good half-decade after Hogwarts.

She passed a window on the way up to the forth floor, catching a glimpse, through the darkness, of a gust of winter air and ice pellets smashing into the iced-over glass. The dreary weather only coincided with her dreary mood. Hermione loved a good mystery just like anyone else, but this one was getting a bit too extensive and a _lot_ too personal.

She hated being left in the dark for this long, and her chat with Malfoy, as well as Dumbledore's clashing information, had had most definitely just thrown her into a black hole. Of course, many snippets of Dumbledore's intel was turning out to be faulty - he had, after all, skipped the entire curse bit _and_ the possible Tom Riddle/close friends bit, or lack thereof …

But, if Dumbledore _was_ correct about the timeline…then the utter derision that Hermione had seen in Malfoy's eyes, the disgust in his voice… It was real. Malfoy sincerely believed Tom Riddle wasn't worth a knut—or, at least, he had Hermione convinced that he did. Had Malfoy known that it was Tom who had formed the Death Eaters, he would have had a bit more respect than that, just because, she reasoned.

_I mean, you don't mess with Lord Voldemort._

Malfoy wouldn't have been able to cover it up that well, even if he was putting on some kind of an act, unless, somehow, he didn't _know_ that his budding Dark Lord was Tom Riddle…

Harry _had_ said that the leader had used a Muffler charm….

Torn in two completely different directions and getting absolutely nowhere, Hermione's mind wandered back to the issue at hand. She had never, ever imagined that the young Lord Voldemort's half-blood heritage would make him a marked outsider in the very house his ancestor had created. Thinking back on it now, though, she found herself asking, Why not?

Purebloods ruled the Slytherin house, plain and simple, and Tom Riddle was not a pureblood.

Was that why he never ate in the Great Hall? Hermione wondered, so many puzzling pieces about the Heir of Slytherin now sliding into place at dizzyingly fast speeds. And why Draco, Ginny, and Harry had reported that none of them had ever seen Tom set foot in the Slytherin Common Room?

Hermione swiftly continued to fill in the gaps before she was interrupted by some confused first year or dive-bombed by Peeves or lost her train of thought. She vaguely remembered Dumbledore mentioning, from one of his inside sources, how Lord Voldemort had taken particular delight in having the pureblooded elite of his Death Eater forces— like the Malfoys—bow to his will. But of _course_ he would have, she realized, after all the pureblood supremacy remarks Malfoy and others had no doubt made throughout the years.

Was that why Tom didn't seem to like purebloods, but he still favored them over muggles and muggleborns, since the only muggles he had known since birth had treaded him dreadfully? And… was it why he alienated himself from her? _Especially_ when she was trying to be friendly?

Tom obviously had the same, if not more experience in certain areas than she had…in spells and knowledge, in how to maneuver, undiscovered, throughout Hogwarts, in intuitive observation, in emotional masking, in the utter drudgery, the darkness of life, but… had he not known what to do in response to her "bonding" attempts because he had never been exposed to something of that nature?

Had anyone his age ever even cared enough to be persistently friendly to him before she had arrived?

As Hermione mounted the last staircase, the gaping, pale oak Hospital Wing entry finally coming into sight at the end of the seventh floor corridor, an eerie, terrifying realization struck her, chills prickling up and down her spine for the second time that night, a cold sweat breaking out behind her neck.

Had she just named most of the reasons why Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort?

The giant wooden double doors were upon her now, beckoning her to open them. Hermione tentatively drew up alongside the Wing and hesitated, dreading to enter, if for no other reason than for fear that her expressions, her eyes, her words would somehow give away something of the revelations she had just had. About _him._

Of course, she had no tangible proof that she was correct, none at all, and the Death Eater enigma threw a wrench into most of her speculations… but a strange, instinctive feeling that she could not quite name told her that she was not far from the truth. She just knew she wasn't.

Sighing heavily, she turned around and leaned her back against the outside of the Hospital Wing door, trying the urge the knot of tenseness stubbornly parked right in the middle of her shoulder blades to disappear.

As she stared up at the vaulted, Byzantine stone corridor ceilings, a single idea that she had never once considered before floated through her mind - that maybe, just maybe, the way to stop Tom Riddle from becoming Voldemort was not by killing him… but by being his friend.

Was that what Dumbledore had meant when he had told her, told her years and years ago, it seemed, told her in such a different time and a different place that his gray, bearded, defeated image was fuzzy and full of gaps that her memory could not fill in, told her that, sometimes, the most difficult battles were not won by fighting?

And Hermione couldn't help but wonder… could she destroy Lord Voldemort without destroying Tom Riddle?

BAM!

The giant Hospital Wing door against which Hermione was leaning abruptly swung open, and the brunette only had enough time to utter a tiny shriek of surprise before she toppled over backward and was nearly mowed over by Madam Lamberdeau.

"Oh, _so_ sorry, dearie!" Madam L exclaimed as she steadied Hermione with relatively quick middle-aged reflexes, balancing a cart loaded down with all sorts of shaped flasks and potions behind her. "I've got to make a House call, but go on in, go on!"

The motherly Mediwitch distractedly waved her hand toward the open door, probably used to Hermione's frequents to the Infirmary by now. "He's drifted off for a touch again, I think, but he's already asked me if you've stopped by… Twice, if I recall correctly…"

For reasons unknown to her, Hermione's heart again sped up in her chest as Madam L purposefully started off down the corridor, and the brunette could hear the matron muttering, _"Quiddich _accident, stopped the bludger with his face before it could go through a window, could only make it as far as the Potions classrooms…_humph!_ You'd think the Slytherin team would know better than to perform foolish heroics with bludgers by now…"

_Oh, Malfoy, how you lie._

A smirk broke out on to Hermione's face in spite of herself, but it quickly contorted into a grimace as a jolt of electricity exploded through her nerves the moment her injured right hand attempted to close the Hospital Wing door. Now that most of her deep thinking was over, the throbbing had moved back to the front burner with a vengeance, and the powers that be had turned it on the highest level.

_Bugger._ Wincing, Hermione bit her lip while her mind scrolled down the few healing spells she knew of, and, grudgingly, she finally admitted that she couldn't come up with any reliable ones that could fix bones. So, still in considerable pain, Hermione halfheartedly turned to face the neat row of empty white hospital beds, hesitating again.

_Oh, come **on,** Hermione, don't be a wimp._

Leisurely, she tossed her cascade of curls over her shoulder for moral support, inhaled a deep breath for good measure, and proceeded to take _extremely_ tiny steps toward the only occupied bed on the far left hand side of the Infirmary, i.e. the semi-permanent residence of Tom Riddle.

She was in absolutely no hurry to get there, and she didn't care if she looked like an idiot as she inched along. Nobody else was there to see her, anyway, and she didn't particularly feel like facing the Heir of Slytherin in her present state. Hurt. Hot. Tired as hell.

_That's right, Mione,_ what little of the normally abundant optimism that was left in her mind encouraged bleakly. _One foot in front of the other. And again. And again. And again._

Meanwhile, a little prick of guilt crept back and began to prod at Hermione's heart. _Oh, don't **you** start,_ she growled to herself fiercely. _This curse isn't my fault! I never asked to be a part of it, never!_

_But you are hemming it on, _the yogic voice of reason lectured serenely in her ear. _**You** asked him to Hogsmeade, **you** asked him to the Holiday Soiree, **you** are giving him more opportunities to fall in love with you…. _

_It is **you,** not he, who is sealing his fate…_

_I can't force him to stop fancying me! _Hermione's mind screamed back, wanting nothing more than to reach into her head and chuck the little Dumbledore-like omniscient voice into the rubbish bin… once she got her hand back into working order, at least.

At long last, she reached the end of the room and dragged her usual, economically made and, she had come to believe, purposefully uncomfortable wooden chair over to Tom's bedside. And, for a moment, Hermione just sat there, staring at his still form. He looked so like Tom Riddle… yet so _unlike_ Tom Riddle, if that made sense.

The teenage Dark Lord was lying in the only hospital bed in the Infirmary propped halfway up, his head tilted to the right so she could only see the left side of his attractive — yes, she had to reluctantly admit this— well-defined but unhealthily pale face, across which tousled dark hair now spilled, that was not buried into a pillow, one fist loosely gripping crumpled sheets.

He was sleeping—or, at least, his eyes were closed, but any traces of worry lines around his forehead… the corners of his eyes… his mouth… were momentarily gone, and his House sweater was rumpled, a far cry from his usually impeccably dressed self.

She felt like she hadn't seen him in ages…ever since their deep discussion the day after Hogsmeade, she and he had hardly spoken, minus the generalities needed to keep the school, the Holiday Soiree planning, the prefects, and their Defense Against the Dark Arts project running smoothly.

Tom's Infirmary visits, though, had become something of a regularity, and Hermione had decided that Tom actually saw more of the place than Harry had, even. Hermione, on the other hand, didn't want to be in there any longer than she had to be.

"Tom," she whispered softly. When he didn't respond, his breathing still slow and steady, Hermione reached out with her uninjured hand and gently shook his warm shoulder. "Hey. Sleeping beauty. Wake up."

Even in his sleep, Tom Riddle stiffened at the contact, and a beat passed. Finally, slooowwly, her Head counterpart tiredly cracked open one eye, squinting in the Hospital Wing's relatively dim evening torchlight until his guarded gaze landed on her own tired face.

"Good morning, sunshine," she managed to quip cheekily, forcing hersel to smile while trying to push both her conversation with Calulaga Malfoy and the unremittingly burning feeling of her positively aching hand from her mind—neither of which were easy tasks.

A slight, genuine smile did break out on her lips, however, when Tom visibly relaxed and actually let out a tiny groan, closing his eye again and shoving his dark head farther into the pillow like an obstinate six year old. "Wha tie's'it?" he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

Hermione translated his question into an answer. "Seven thirty at night."

Tom's eyes snapped open. "No."

"Yes, actually." Hermione attempted another grin, but failed miserably, as the pounding in her hand had spread to her brain like a potent drug, fogging most of her happy senses, her motor skills, and her hearing: the only sound echoing in her head was a rhythmic, thudding BA-BOOM. BA-BOOM. BA-BOOM. BA-BOOM.

She was almost beginning to regret she had even punched Calugala Malfoy in the first place.

Almost.

The petite brunette felt no better when Tom took a quick, assessing survey of what he could see of her from the waist up, lingering on her no doubt ashen face, pale even for her tanned skin. She shifted uneasily under his gaze—something she normally refused to do— but she was still caught completely off guard at the speed of his perceptiveness when he muttered a second later, "What's wrong, Nefertari?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, both staggered and impressed, and she automatically, defensively protested, "Nothing's wrong!"

The too-smart-for-his-own-good prat merely raised his eyebrows in a similar fashion, as if to say '_Uh-huh, **right.'**_

"Wellll…" the brunette rephrased, absently twisting her loose curls into a ponytail with one hand a tucking the wavy mess under the collar of her robes. _No use lying about it_,_ I suppose._ "I _was_ thinking about how you just missed the last and best Silviarius project meeting that we've ever had..."

Like she had pushed a button, Tom's stormy eyes clouded over. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice emerging unexpectedly apathetic— unexpected because he had loosened up around her a _lot, _or, at least, a lot for Tom Riddle, and never constantly masked his feelings anymore, unless the occasional time came up when he _really_ didn't want her to know what he was thinking. Like now, apparently. He turned his head to get a better view of her. "What was so wonderful about it?"

Hermione casually lounged back in her chair, pretending to actually consider his question while making sure she kept one stretched-out robe sleeve well over her bloodied fist. "Well…. I _suppose_ the fact that I survived meeting up with Malfoy every other day for a month and a half and no longer have to do so was a significant moment for me… but I think I enjoyed punching him in the face a tad bit more."

Hermione didn't know what kind of reaction she expected from Tom, but instead of hi-fiving her like Harry or Ron would most definitely not have hesitated to do, and probably even kiss her, too, Tom's stormy eyes only blanched at her, irritatingly unreadable. More like a complete lack of reaction.

_Well, duh, Mione, it's not like you expected the Heir of Slytherin to be the hi-fiving type._

"You punched Calugala Malfoy?" he asked, a tinge of disbelief in the question. When the smirk on Hermione's face only grew wider and she nodded, he continued, his confusion evident, "Why?"

"Oh, don't know, really…" Hermione gazed up at the white ceiling and shrugged indistinctly, immediately wishing she hadn't as another intense shock that nearly brought tears to her eyes shot through her right hand.

Setting her jaw stubbornly and forcing the pain from her mind, she began to whistle innocently. "I mean, who would ever want to physically attack such a smart, _sweet _boy…" She stopped whistling, tilted her head back down, and looked back at Tom, not surprised to see a Draco-like smirk on his face.

"You do realize he's going to hate you forever now," he said matter-of-factly, still studying her as if trying to figure out exactly what had caused the usually understanding and collected if not somewhat frenetic Head Girl to suddenly resort to assault and sarcasm.

Hermione decided that she might as well be brutally honest, and she rolled her eyes. "Excuse me while I go cry," she said sardonically.

Her unapologetic disclosure about hitting Malfoy had clearly awakened Tom fully, and his gray eyes turned devious. "Nefertari, _Nefertari,"_ he tisked in a tone that Hermione would have classified as teasing had it not been Tom Riddle who was using it, "And here you told me that you have the incredible and somewhat rare ability, in my case, to enjoy yourself most anywhere, at most any time, with most any person, in most any situation."

It took Hermione's pounding head more a moment to recall their discussion during the carriage ride to Hogsmeade three weeks prior. When she did, she started at Tom's incredible, seemingly effortless capacity for recollection. "I'm not even going to ask how you remembered that whole thing verbatim."

"The first step to wisdom is silence, the second is listening," he threw out carelessly, that same smirk on his face, although his eyes, strangly, seemed absolutely serious.

For that brief moment, he sounded so unexpectedly much like Dumbledore that Hermione grinned, and she decided to stick with her assumption that Tom and Malfoy didn't like each other simply because _she'd_ be happier if that was indeed the case. "Well, don't get me wrong, I'd have a great time with Malfoy if I sent a silencing spell at the prick the second he showed up. He's so much more likeable when he doesn't open his mouth, don't you think?"

Tom actually smiled, his eyes laughing at her, a rare but welcome occurrence that never failed to catch Hermione off guard, as the transformation to his features had him looking like an entirely different person altogether and was nothing short of unbelievable — the genuine light in his eyes, the touch of rosy color on his pale cheeks, the dazzling, charismatic but hesitant flash of white.

In other words, his smile was nothing like Calugala Malfoy's smile earlier that evening.

Hermione couldn't help but stare at Tom, all wounded sensation from her injured hand flying from her body as quickly as Harry could dive for the Snitch. Almost simultaneously, as if he had felt her steady gaze on him, the smile froze on Tom's face, and his eyes narrowed at her questioningly. Luckily, her motor senses chose that moment to take control of the situation, and a ruthless jab of electricity was sent through her right arm. _Snap **out** of it, Hermione!_

_Whoa… _

Woozily, Hermione shook the cobwebs from her head and blinked. _Oh my…Oh my **God,** I did not just look like some ditzy, star-struck adolescent!_

Without wasting another second, she hastily added, "And, although I did a lot more damage than I expected to, and the little monster got exactly what he deserved…. I think I broke my hand."

To complete Hermione's mortification, her last six words emerged as a whimper, and she winced, all the while concentrating on not flushing the color of Ginny's hair. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe he'd think that it was from the pain.

"That would explain why you're acting like a bloody lunatic," Tom muttered, more for his own benefit than hers, immediately heaving himself to a sitting position, his mussed bed hair haphazardly strewn to one side of his face, a few uncombed strands twirling into his gray eyes, his forest green Slytherin knit twisted, slightly askew, around his torso.

To Hermione's immense relief, her latter prediction proved to be correct, because he noted wryly, "I know the very prospect of talking to me seems to thrill you more than most, Nefertari, but shouldn't you have had Madam Lamberdeau take a look at it before you rushed over here?"

In spite of the unrelenting throbbing in her hand and the sarcasm in Tom's last comment, a smirk jumped to Hermione's face, and this time, it made it completely. "Thanks for that brilliant observation, Mr. Smart Aleck, I'll be sure to keep it in mind for any future visits, and, no, I couldn't have because she's not here. She had to take a run to help out a certain Slytherin who recently 'took a bludger to the face for the good of the building.' "

" 'Good of the building,' I'm sure that took him a while to think up." Tom mirrored her smirk and impatiently straightened his sweater while motioning for her to hold out her covered-up hand. "Well, Nefertari, let's see it, then," he muttered gruffly. "Can't have you dying on my watch."

Hermione's heart began to thud heavily, much like her hand and her head had already been doing for the past half hour. He wanted to see it? Like she was about to believe that the _Heir of Slytherin_ had any substantial healing skills.

Suddenly, a rather disconcerting image of Lord Voldemort in a standard Mediwizard uniform flashed through her mind, and, even though the situation was far from funny, it took Hermione all she had not to burst out laughing. Honestly, she had never really believed that pain was like a drug... until now.

Hermione vacillated for only another second, though, before the brutal throbbing in both her hand and temples overwhelmed her, and she reluctantly surrendered her injured hand, resisting the urge to growl, "Mess it up more, and _you'll_ die on _my_ watch."

Tom took her hand, and Hermione sucked in a hiss of air as an electric shock ran up her arm that Hermione credited only to bruised nerves. Tom continued to proceed cautiously, though, balancing her fingers in his palm with more gentleness than she had ever expected from him.

"Good Merlin, Nefertari, you must have got him good," he said in a low, appraising voice as he lightly turned her hand over in his, no doubt observing the dried blood on it that Hermione had been too preoccupied to clean up.

"It felt good at the time," she muttered defensively, subconsciously thankful he hadn't pursued the issue of _why_ she had punched Malfoy in the first place.

"Oh, I don't doubt that." Tom smiled slightly again— not the same full smile that had graced his dark features before, but Hermione would take anything she could get— and he reached back under his pillow, emerging with his wand. Hermione stiffened up the moment she saw it, sending a skeptical look in his direction.

He caught the look and smirked. "It's my turn to ask now, Nefertari. Don't you trust me?"

Hermione's doubtful expression promptly hardened into a glare, and she grumpily wrinkled her nose at him as he chuckled under his breath and trained the wand on her mangled hand. The painful throbbing in her entire body sped up frenetically, her chest tightening excruciatingly as if a pump had just squeezed all the air from it, and, in spite of herself, she recoiled, her hand trying to tug itself away from him as if it had a life of its own.

She was up against a Head Boy as stubborn as she was, though, and Tom obstinately held on to her wrist. "Nefertari, hold still, will you, do you want me to miss?" he asked nonchalantly, though the underlying threat to his words was clearly evident.

It was a dirty trick, and Hermione froze faster than she would have had she been _petrified,_ her stomach solidifying into a bundle of nerves. She apprehensively watched as the Heir of Slytherin took in a calm breath and slowly released it, obviously doing whatever it was he was going to do nonverbally… and a soft emerald light simultaneously flowed from his wand.

At first sight of the green flash and memories of the Killing Curse flashing through her mind, Hermione nearly had an aneurysm, but this emerald glow was not the Avada Kedavra's instantaneous kiss of death, thank Merlin. Rather, it was as bright as a real fire, and, Hermione was soon to discover, equally as hot.

She gasped—in both relief that she hadn't died and in pain at the additional burst of scorching heat—and instinctively jerked away again, the abused hand feeling like it had just been dunked in a pot of scalding water.

Tom quickly glanced over at her, and Hermione was shocked to find a surprisingly large depth of concern in his gray eyes.

In a heartbeat, though, he blinked, his momentary lapse in his emotional mask vanishing, and he diligently returned his gaze to her wounded hand. Reaching his long arm across the void between his bed and her chair and retrieving her thoroughly unenthusiastic hand, he murmured mildly, "Come back, Nefertari, this'll hurt far less than it did in the long run, and it's a lot faster than anything Lamberdeau'll give you."

He retrained his wand on her bloodied fingers and continued the spell as if he had never stopped in the first place. This time, though, Hermione knew what to expect, and she bit her lip, steeling herself for the torrid sensation, as the green mist again spread from the tip of his wand, enveloping her entire hand.

Like a veil was swept from before her eyes, Hermione immediately felt her senses clear. The green glow disapperated into thin air, and her eyes shot open in shock as the bruised swelling, splattered Malfoy blood, and throbbing, stinging pain all vanished with it.

Tom's cold hand lingered on hers for a good half minute after the emerald haze faded into oblivion, before he shook his head slightly and loosened his grip, dropping his wand into his lap. "That's it, Nefertari; you've made it out alive. Congratulations."

Hermione pulled back her mended hand and proceeded to critically inspect the smooth, unbroken skin. With a quick glance at Tom's expectant face, she pushed on random knuckles with her left hand, feeling for some kind of tinge that would indicate a lack of healing and, therefore, spell error. None came. "What _was_ that?"

Tom shrugged. "Something I made up."

"You made that up?" Hermione echoed incredulously. She promptly stopped her examination of her extraordinarily repaired fingers and, rather, arched her right eyebrow in impressed astonishment. "That was… that was good!"

The praise seemed to neither bolster nor deflate the Heir of Slytherin's ego. Instead, he blatantly appraised her for a moment as though he was trying to decide whether to tell her something or not, and Hermione figured she'd been approved when he began in a low voice, "I broke my arm a few years ago, when I was in the orphanage. Whatever the Muggles did for it, it hurt like hell for weeks. Didn't even heal properly until Madam L fixed it when I came back to Hogwarts."

He absently picked up his wand and began to ravel and unravel the crisp white bed sheets around it. "After that, I decided that I should at least have some kind of a back up in case another time came when I was stuck without a bone-healing potion."

_But… but… making up spells of that caliber could take… months! _Her mind spluttered._ **Years,** even!_

Hermione had never met anyone who took the time to sit down and invent healing charms for their own amusement. She had always wanted to try it, herself—inventing spells in general— but she had never seemed to be able to find the time, what with the war, all her classes, the war, running around with Harry and Ron, and then the war...

"Merlin, I wish _I_ knew that one." Hermione shifted in the stiff-backed Hospital Wing chair, her back already sore, grinning dryly as she remembered how many times Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Draco had to lounge about the Hospital Wing waiting for a Quiddich injury to heal up—and none too willingly, either. "I have a few friends who break bones like it was the latest fad."

Tom modestly shrugged again, as if he didn't quite seem to grasp how big of a deal his ability was, and glanced away, staring blankly at his hands. "I can show it to you sometime, if you want. You shouldn't have any problems with it."

"Really?" Hermione asked, faintly surprised that Tom Riddle would offer to lend someone a hand. "You'd do that?—I mean…" She hesitated, flexing the fingers on her healed hand like she was playing the piano.

_Yes, I **do** want!_

Hermione smiled. "Thanks. For the offer and for my hand, I mean."

There was a pregnant pause in which Tom seemed knocked a bit off-kilter, and then he said awkwardly, too quickly, "You're welcome." He posed it as neither a statement nor a question, but…as more of an unintelligible phrase he had randomly strung together, as if he was rather surprised that two words such as those had exited his mouth in such a context.

Another silence, not quite as uncomfortable as the first, filled the otherwise empty Hospital Wing, broken only by the occasional blast of artic wind that rattled the windowpanes, and both Head Boy and Girl sat, so close to each other, yet so far away, each lost in their own thoughts… until Hermione remembered the reason she had come in the first place. "Listen, Tom, we need to talk about tomorrow."

Tom glanced back at her inquisitively, and for a considerably lengthy time—at least, for the intelligent Slytherin—he seemed to draw a complete blank…until Hermione raised her eyebrows pointedly, jumped to her feet, gracefully lifted her arms like she was holding on to an invisible partner, and elegantly glided in a mock-waltz in the little space between Tom's hospital bed and the next.

"GoodMerlin, that's right," Tom suddenly said, sounding as startled as she imagined he could ever be as he swiftly jolted in recollection, holding a hand up to his mouth and coughing. "The Soiree. _Tomorrow."_

Hermione smiled slightly, immediately dropping her arms and plopping back into the irritatingly hard hospital chair. The overwhelmed expression that blasted across Tom's face was one that she was all too familiar with. "Yeah, don't worry, that's how everybody else feels, too."

Hermione could almost _see_ the wheel's of Tom's mind turning behind his stormy gray eyes as he thoughtfully furrowed his brow, impatiently sweeping a few rogue lock s of dark, uncombed hair from his face, and she couldn't help but mutely respect how calm he was remaining, what with the knowledge that that blasted Soiree was in less than twenty four hours and all…_**Merlin,** I have so much to **do**_… until he started shooting bullets.

"Nefertari, can you double-check the catering order with the house-elves? I was supposed to cover that yesterday, but I…" Tom abruptly halted his onslaught, and a single, uneasy beat passed… until he seemed to decide that she could probably fill in the rest of the sentence for herself, and he briskly continued, "And that blasted Mediwitch still _refuses_ to let me out of here early; did you find someone to fill in my place for decorating tomorrow? Have you talked to Dippet about the music yet?"

"I already did during lunch today, Draco, Ron, and Lavender—see, you're so good I needed _three_ people to replace you"— Tom's lips twitched upward slightly at that— "and ten minutes before curfew last night," Hermione answered efficiently, finding it easier to answer all of his rapid-fire questions at once. "Tom, everything's just fine; I'm mostly sticking to what we finalized before you had to go back in here" — she gestured at the surrounding Hospital Wing— "so you shouldn't have too many surprises when _Madam L_ gives you Infirmary leave for the Soiree. Honestly, it's going to be great. I don't doubt it."

"The only time it'll be great is when the clock strikes midnight and the damn thing's finally over," Tom noted flatly, his eyes distant as they stared off into the darkening Infirmary.

"Party pooper," she teased, but a relieved grin jumped to her face just thinking about the moment she would collapse into her soft, stress-free, king-sized Head Girl bed tomorrow night, her eyes lighting in both anticipation and relief at the light at the end of the tunnel. Soon, though, the smile fading as quickly as it had come, and she hesitated over how she should go about saying what she needed to say. Finally, she worked up the nerve to quietly add, "And Tom, you know that's not what I meant... about tomorrow."

Hermione had anticipated the subdued silence that greeted her last words… but she had also anticipated that he would answer her, eventually.

He did. "What about tomorrow, then?" he asked neutrally, his tone tremendously blasé as he shifted his piercing gaze toward her, but Hermione could just detect a hint of wariness in his tired voice, his back noticeably stiffer than it had been seconds before.

Her pulse speeding up again, hammering heavily in her temples, and this time for reasons that didn't involve a physical injury, Hermione studied the Slytherin before her, sighing heavily. She was…hopelessly torn,there was no other word for it; her entire heart was being mercilessly wrenched in two by whichever fates found this situation entertaining, and there was very little she could do to stop it.

It wasn't that she loved Tom Riddle… Hermione couldn't help but laugh to herself at the complete ludicrousness of the idea, shaking her head slightly. No, what she felt was still a far cry from that, but she didn't hate him, either. Not enough to see him die on her account, anyway.

_This_ Tom Riddle, the one she knew right now, the only Tom Riddle she had ever known, had never given her any reason to feel that strongly against him. And what he would do in the future… Well, his future was no longer set in stone, the Anima Curse had proved that much to her.

On the other severed side of her heart, however, Hermione knew that Draco, Ron, Ginny… well, they would all kill her if she said what she wanted to say to him. Oh, she could hear what they would say: "Mione, he's _Tom Riddle_ for Merlin's sake!" as if that explained everything, but the thing was, it didn't explain everything; in fact, the only thing it _did_ explain was that Tom Riddle had been fated to be surrounded by people who didn't—or wouldn't— try to understand him.

This time, this time in 1944, was as much a part of her life as it was any of her friends, Hermione decided resolutely. They had promised that they wouldn't interfere in how she dealt with Tom Riddle; she had all the liberties to make of it what she wanted… and if that included wanting to try and clean her slate, then, by all means, she would try her damnedest to clean her slate.

Determinedly, Hermione met Tom's questioning eyes, and, before some logical side of her tried to back out in any way, shape, or form, the words tumbled from her mouth in a jumbled rush. "Tom, I want you to listen to me, alright? If you don't feel up to it tomorrow night—going to the Soiree with me, I mean—I don't want you to even get out of this bed. I can cover for you, I can find _ten_ people who can give the professors a tour, but you don't have to do this."

It occured to her that her voice had steadily begun to raise a few notches in desperation, and she quickly reigned it in as she finished with a professional, detached air, "There are other ways."

Tom nodded to himself, apparently able to make sense of her stream of consciousness, and then glanced sidelong at her, saying almost roughly, "Is that your way of getting out of this, Nefertari? Because if it is, you could've just come straight out and asked."

"No!" Caught off guard, Hermione's mouth flopped open - she definitely had not expected him to respond to her escape offering like that, and, fleetingly, she wondered why he had immediately jumped to _that_ assumption. "No, it's not… I…" Her throat went dry. "That's not it, I promise you I'm just—"

_**Yes.**_

Out of nowhere, the word suddenly surged through her mind like an electrical current. _Yes, tell him this _**_is_**_ your way. Tell him to go away. Tell him you hate him, tell him **anything** that will force him to stop liking you!_

Wait…_What? _She wasn't making any sense, what was she thinking? She didn't want to make him _hate_ her… did she?

Frustrated with her own confused indecisiveness and acutely aware of his cold stare silently burning into the side of her head, Hermione felt a prickle of hot emotion behind her eyes, but she stubbornly pushed the sensation away. _What is wrong with me tonight? _

Honestly, Hermione plunged ahead, seeng as it was too late to go back. "I'm just afraid… that you'll go, you'll go like you went to Hogsmeade and…and end up getting worse." Her voice lowered a notch and, her stomach twisting embarrassedly for reasons yet unknown to her, her eyes shimmering seriously, she whispered, "And I don't want that."

Instantly, Tom's indecipherable gray gaze froze, and he stared at her in an entirely different manner than he had been seconds before, stock-still, his eyebrows raised very slightly as if he couldn't quite comprehend what she had just said.

With a sudden, alarmingly desperate air, Hermione wished she knew what was going through his enigmatic, unreachable mind… until he suddenly turned away from her as a jagged cough ripped through him, and then another, and other, and then she did knew what was going through his mind as he went into an _Anima_ attack more violent than even the one she had seen in his bedroom the morning after Hogsmeade, his shoulders hunching over, dropping his wand and tightly clutching an arm about his stomach...

_For the love of **God, **not **this!** Not **now!** _Hermione thought helplessly, feeling like collapsing to the floor and crying herself to an exhausted but blissful state of unconsciousness. She hopped up from her chair so quickly that the blasted thing flipped over with an unceremonious BANG, but she hardly noticed.

Stumbling backwards until her back ran in to the next bed over, she couldn't help but be briefly hypnotized as the Curse unfolded in all its atrocious glory, and knowing that even someone as powerful as the Heir of Slytherin could be affected by it as brutally as he was… well, it was chillingly terrifying, what magic could do.

Urgently, Hermione threw a frantic glance over her shoulder at Madam L's distant office door, knowing it was empty. With the harsh sound of Tom's cruelly relentless coughing ringing in her ears, the brunette swung her gaze in an even greater arc so she could see the Infirmary entrance, hoping against all hope that Madam L would walk right in… any second now… any second…

She didn't.

Honestly, the Mediwitch had been gone for hours, _days,_ why wasn't she back in her Hospital Wing where she belonged, where someone _needed_ her?

Shoving herself off the vacant hospital bed behind her, Hermione crouched at Tom's bedside, desperately searching for any potion on his relatively empty counter that might be able to help him. To her horror, she felt the same emotion she had felt at her dead parents' sides rush through her: that feeling of frustrated, utter powerlessness, knowing what was wrong with him but not being able to do anything that might help him fix it, like he had fixed her hand.

In a voice loud enough for him to hear over his immobilizing cough, she shouted, "Tom! What do you want me to do?"

Weakly, the Slytherin's right hand left his fixed grip on his stomach and, his head still turned away toward the wall, fumbled blindly for his bedside table. He had to be going for the only items on it: a pile of thick, expensive-restaurant-like cloth handkerchiefs in the far corner.

Without delay, Hermione snatched one up and pressed it into his outstretched hand. "Here!"

Without a word or even a glance of acknowledgement, Tom grabbed the kerchief from her hand and held it against his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut in pain, each powerful cough wracking ruthlessly through his body. It was a scene that had become eerily familiar to Hermione, now, as she hovered anxiously nearby, and she could only pray that it wouldn't carry on much longer.

_Wait. _

She could only _pray_… or could she do more than that?

After hesitating for only a heartbeat, Hermione scooted next to Tom on the edge of the hospital bed, even now appearing all the more petite when compared to the Heir of Slytherin's towering but slight build, and lightly rested her left hand on his doubled-over, sweater-clad back.

Tom immediately stiffened, but made no effort to push her away, and she soothingly began to rub her hand in circles over the warm, knitted material, feeling each of his coughs erupt beneath her fingertips as if they were her own.

"Breathe…breathe…_That's_ it, good boy," she murmured softly as his attack almost instantaneously began to lessen. Still massaging his back in a light, circular motion, she reached over with her right hand and lightly smoothed his sweaty yet exorbitantly neat, soft locks of dark hair back from the side of his bowed head, repeating in a relieved whisper, "Good boy."

The entire rhythmical-ness of it all seemed to calm Tom somewhat, and although he continued to gasp in deep, ragged gulps of air like he was drowning with no hope of rescue… at least the coughing stopped. After what seemed to Hermione like ages, he straightened up, still struggling to catch his breath, his already ashen complexion now drained to a definite peaky pallor… and pulled the cloth away from his mouth.

And the bottom fell out of Hermione's stomach when she saw that half of the handkerchief was no longer white.

Frozen in time, she stared, horrified, at the dark red blood soaking into the stiff fabric before Tom hastily crumpled it up into a ball.

Hermione, though, stopped rubbing his back and snatched the handkerchief from his hand before he could throw it away, being careful to hold the blood-free part of the crimson-stained cloth. "My God, Tom, do you see this? _Do_ you?" She waved it in front of his face like a war-torn flag, just in case he hadn't. "There is no way I'm letting you come tomorrow, not like this! It's notsaf—"

"Nefertari!" Tom interrupted forcefully, having regained his breath enough to enter the fray, his usually smooth, harmonic voice now hoarse from the coughing. He had to shift his head in nearly ninety degree turn to meet her concerned gaze with a steely one of his own, as she was sitting right next to him, so close that her shoulder would occasionally brush against the side of his arm. "I'm going."

It took Hermione everything that she had, everything, to not gape at Tom Riddle in astonishment. She was stunned, unable to believe that he was going to go through with this even though she had given him a chance to get out of it.

_Why do you have to be so stubborn?_

"But you'll _hurt_ yourself," she finally said delicately, speaking the truth, numbly returning the bloody, balled-up handkerchief.

Wordlessly, Tom accepted little orb of material and stared down at it, not speaking as he turned it over, gingerly dabbing a finger at the edge of his own blood and then, just as quickly, wiping it off. Sagging wearily, he glanced back up at her, and this time Hermione saw a new emotion on his face: Determination.

"I'm going," he repeated dully, his voice a level softer than it had been earlier. And when his eyes met hers once more, there was a muted passion in those stormy gray pools that Hermione had never seen before.

Merlin, he really _was_ serious about this.

Abruptly, Hermione made a noise under her breath, about to voice another strong disagreement, but Tom cut her off again.

"Nefertari, please don't," he whispered in a somber yet fervent tone, three little words that carried more emotion than Hermione had ever heard pass his lips. He drew in a shuddery breath, shaking his head heavily, and she canned her protests immediately, simply listening in an astonished daze as he continued, "I've had little or no control over what's happened in so much of my life..."

His hoarse voice was abnormally strained, almost pleading. "Once, just this once… let me make my own decisions."

A moment of silence ensued, in which Hermione attempted to grasp the meaning behind Tom's words, and, with a bit of a jolt, she realized that he was no longer just referring to whether or not he could go to the Holiday Soiree.

The Anima Curse's course, and, subsequently, Tom Riddle's fate, was no longer simply in her hands. Tom had just told her that. It was no longer her place to be guilty about what was happening to him, because she _had_ tried, she had given him an opportunity to say no to the dance, to avoid her at all costs so his little infatuation could pass and the Curse could go into remission, she honestly had. And he had just chosen to turn down that chance.

Though it didn't exactly make her feel any better, what happened to him from this moment on was as much his doing as it was hers.

Tom Riddle was obviously insane. Honestly, did he _want_ to die, did he really?

Suddenly, a memory flashed before Hermione's eyes, a flashback of something her father had told her after he and her mother had had a fierce battle of sorts over where to take Hermione on her sixth birthday—the art museum or the zoo— when her own naive voice had piped in, curious and wide-eyed, "How on earth did you and mummy ever get married, daddy?"

Thinking back on it, Hermione couldn't help but smile to herself at the childlike innocence of the question, but her smile faded rapidly when she recalled his answer, could see the amused smile on his face as he picked her up and set her on his shoulders, could hear his rich, affectionate baritone.

"_Well, sweetheart, you do know what they say about love, don't you?"_

_Hermione giggled and shook her head in a 'no.' _

"_You **don't!" **Her father gasped in mock exaggeration. "That simply won't do, that won't do at all! I can't have my beautiful, brilliant little girl left in the dark on one of life's greatest secrets, can I?" _

_From her perch on his shoulders, she eagerly lowered her tiny, curly head as her father lifted his lips so they was right beside her little ear, and he whispered confidentially, "Love can make you do _**_crazy_**_ things, sweetheart."_

_Hermione giggled again, taking a playful swipe at his unprotected head. "Awwww, daddy, that's only in story books!" _

_He laughed, plucking her off his shoulders before the five-year-old Hermione could do any serious damage…_

But now, for the first time in her life… Hermione believed that her father might, just might have been right.

Tearing herself from her reverie, she surreptitiously checked Tom's face once more out of the corner of her eye, just to be sure… and saw that the rugged edge of determination had not vanished from the Heir of Slytherin's features, but, rather, had strengthened and, strangely, had been joined by some kind of emotional struggle that Hermione was not able to put a finger on.

Tom must have seen Hermione's gaze refocus and re-land on him, because he added, his voice still gravelly from the _Anima_ attack, "And Nefertari?"

It was painfully obvious to her, now, how ill he really did look. His ashen face had not regained any coloring at all, and although he had always had a bit of a thin face, his cheekbones were more pronounced than usual, and the circles under his eyes had only deepened.

Over the past few weeks, Hermione had even developed the ability to be able to tell when the _Anima_ Curse had given him an exceedingly rough day, because he would enter the Common Room at night more slowly, less like the vigorous, agile teenager that he used to be and more like a world-weary old man.

It would be clear to anyone who didn't even know him that something was wrong. And the rumors that had been flying around for weeks now, the rumors that Malfoy had thrown in her face earlier, the whispers that the Head Boy was going to die, didn't help things much, either.

Carefully, Tom balanced his wand on his palm and studied it as if it was the latest scientific breakthrough, tearing his face from her evaluating eyes as if he seemed to know what she was thinking. Running his long fingers over the ridged handle and smooth overlay, he mumbled quietly, "It'd be far easier on you from here on in if you just stopped worrying about me."

Hermione's heart sank. She knew then that there would be no arguing with him.

So she stopped trying.

**Tuesday, December 21, 1944**

**4:53 P.M.**

"So, he's going with you tonight, huh?" Draco asked, a small, pleased smirk on his face. The blond ambled up alongside Hermione and stopped, his thumbs hooked around the belt loop on his black designer pants, innocently rocking back and forth on his heels.

Behind him, crimson reds, deep greens, and sparkling whites swirled by as every available prefect scurried back and forth, industriously, almost frantically putting the finishing touches on the Great Hall as the clock ticked down to seven o'clock.

Oh, no.

Hermione did _not_ need to talk about this right now.

"Well, it seems you have the right sources," she said shortly. She took the end of a gigantic, twenty-meter loop of thick, rich forest green garland from Ron's outstretched hands, nearly buckling under its weight, and began to _Wingardium Leviosa_ it around the frame of the main doors—

_CRASH!_

Started, Hermione leapt a mile at the unexpected, thunderous clattering noise, muttering some colorful phrases under her breath and then flushing a deep scarlet when she realized she had. Simultaneously, she lost her concentration on the Levitation spell and, therefore, her hold on the garland.

"Watch it!" the lanky redhead exclaimed sharply, yanking Hermione from the path of the raining garland whip before it had could knock her off her feet. Like a fallen star, the menacing garland crashed dangerously to the floor a half meter away, nicking Draco on the back of the head in the process.

"Ow! _Nef!"_ Draco exclaimed in annoyance, sidestepping the wreath of cranberries and pine needles. Smirking like a fiend, he cupped his hands around his mouth and hooted, "Nice one, Wilkes!"

"Thanks, Ron," Hermione faintly murmured to her rescuer as an enthusiastic round of applause broke out among the twenty or so prefects scattered around the Great Hall.

Jacobson Andrews stuck two fingers into his mouth and skillfully let out an earsplitting whistle that sounded suspiciously like the one that deafened the bystanders at every Gryffindor Quiddich game when the opposing team was taking a foul shot. "Who knew decorating could be so hazardous to your health?"

"Do _that_ one more time!" A sixth year Ravenclaw named Guy Davis chortled, balancing two potted, closed Moonlight Magnolias above his head.

_Immature boys,_ Hermione thought exhaustedly, rapidly approaching her four-hour night sleep and full day of Holiday Soiree preparation's functional limit.

Her heart thudding, her brain feeling about ready to explode, Hermione straightened her robe with as much dignity as she had left and glanced toward Slytherin side of the Great Hall and deer-in-the-headlights seventh year prefect Miranda Wilkes, who had been levitating one of the room-length tables along the wall to form up with the second food display.

The table was now flipped over on its side, leaning up against the Hufflepuff table so that it jutted out into the air at an angle that strangely resembled the Titanic minutes before it sank beneath the waters of the Atlantic. Hermione was both shocked and relieved that the booming CRACK of the table hadn't actually broken anything. "MIRANDA! Swish and flick it from the _bottom,_ not the top! That should do it!"

"Oh, Mione, I can actually give her a hand with that," Ron said out of the blue, the swish and flick comment getting the habitual procrastinataholic into motion.

Miranda started, shaking her head out of her daze at being the reason why one of the legendary house tables was currently so precariously askew. "Check on that one! Sorry about that, Nefertari!" the black-haired Slytherin yelled back, nodding at Ron as he jogged over usefully, wand in hand. "Thanks, West."

Hermione sighed heavily and turned back toward the giant double doors, sending the mile-long garland back into the air with a flip of her wand. Her mental assembly-line had backed up hours ago, and a thought that should have occurred to her minutes before struck her now. "And where is _Shrimperdink,_ he WAS _SUPPOSED_ TO VANISH THE OTHER HOUSE TABLES _RIGHT_ AFTER WE SET UP THE DANCE FLOOR!"

"Is it irreversible yet?" Lavender asked casually, mirroring Hermione and lifting an army of giant red bows into the air with a flick of her wrist.

Hermione's hands turned cold, knowing exactly what the blond-streaked Hufflepuff was referring to. "Is what irreversible yet?"

Before the blonette could answer, Hermione caught sight of the slacking seventh year Shimperdink slinking back into the Great Hall._ "SHIMPERDINK!" _she bellowed, causing him to leap into a stand of Christmas trees and then glare at Hermione like she had gone mad. Ignoring it, Hermione jabbed a finger at the three remaining House tables. "Get at it!"

"The curse," Lavender said, stating the obvious as Hermione shook her head at Shimperdink and drew in a deep, stressed-out breath of pine tree scented air, carefully weaving the garland along the outline of the doors. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, both girls moved their wands expertly, Lavender following Hermione's lead with the poinsettia-red bows, securing them along evenly spaced-out lengths of garland. "You said that once he fell in love with you, it'd be irreversible. Our job here would be finished."

The virulently ill feeling in Hermione's stomach which had taken root when she had spoken to Tom the night before seized that exact moment to blossom with a vengeance. "No." She swallowed back the urge to be sick. "He hasn't gone into the energy-depleting stage, he's still in the pain stage. He seems on the verge, though…"

"Well, then, it's so perfect it's like a bloody novel!" Draco exclaimed, hopping back into the conversation that Hermione assumed he had tuned out when he had begun to double-check the time-release mist enchantments that Hermione had set earlier.

The brunette raised her eyebrows at him skeptically. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means, all you have to do is show up looking bloody amazing, and I, as a knowledgeable creature of the opposite sex, can tell you exactly what will happen when Riddle sees you," Draco continued with a boyishly excited grin. "Tonight is your night, Nef. Quick, Brown, get over here - We're going to make him fall into Irreversible with her _tonight!"_

_Oh **God** no._

Hermione's felt like someone had snuffed all the life from her body as Draco briskly turned to Lavender. "Can you do it?"

"How much time do I have?" Lavender asked solemnly, tying off her last bow with a flourish and stepping back, surveying Hermione from the top of the Head Girl's frazzled, curly head to the bottom of her impatiently tapping flats.

"Please hold…" Draco made an abrupt about-face toward the main body of the Great Hall, shoved some long locks of loose, silky platinum hair out of his face, and peered at the shiny bronze hands of the grandfather clock on the far wall. "About two hours."

Lavender frowned decisively. "It'll be close, but I think I can make it."

"Now, wait just a minute both of you…."

Chuckling nervously, Hermione shook her head stubbornly, not liking where this was headed. "No, ohhhhh no you don't. No!" she exclaimed, her stomach doing all sorts of perilous aerobic feats she thought only capable of professional athletes. She protectively held out her wand as Lavender circled her. "Lav, I won't! I am _perfectly_ capable of getting dressed myself, thank you, and I refuse to be used as…as visual bait—"

As Hermione backed away from Lavender like a cornered animal, an abnormally blistering blast of heat burst through her shirt. Emitting a sharp, surprised gasp, her defenses momentarily fell as she glanced down the slight v-neck of her sweater… at a faintly shimmering Amulet of Eras.

Her latte eyes widened, bowled over, and she squinted at the new, inexplicable sight, her worn-out mind spinning in complete confusion. The Amulet of Eras had always burned—well, not always, but enough that she had gotten used to it—but she had never… never once noticed it _glowing…_

_What in Merlin's name—_

Out of nowhere, a wand prodded into Hermione's back like a hypodermic needle, and she instinctively stiffened like a board, her eyes tearing away from the Amulet as she frantically swung around for her unseen assailant….but before she could move more than a few inches in response, she distantly heard Draco's voice mutter, _"Petrificus Totalus."_

And Hermione froze, a dirty glare at Draco du Lac semi-permanently set on her unmoving face.

Before her paralyzed body could slam into the ground, though, the blond caught her in his arms and slid his head close to her ear, repeating, "Visual bait, Nef? People are _counting_ on you to succeed tonight. Lest you think that you're the _only_ one who has to worry about stopping Riddle, remember the five other people who also sacrificed their modern lives to come back in time and deal with this problem. Four months ago, this is a game that you, that we all agreed to play for the greater good."

_Yeah, a game where people **die!**_ Hermione thought frantically, wanting to _scream_ in aggravation and give Draco the same punch she had just bestowed on his grandfather. _**Ooooo,** you are **so** lucky I can't move! _

Hermione had to be satisfied with simply shooting volley after volley of sharp mental arrows into Draco and Lavender with her furious eyes, nearly frustrated to the threshold of tears, as the pair Levitated her around one of the Christmas trees the Care of Magical Creatures professor had trundled into the Great Hall earlier that afternoon and out of the nearly-finished Great Hall/Holiday Soiree Ballroom toward the Hufflepuff dorms.

Lavender smiled at Hermione brightly. "Oh, cheer up, Hermy! Trust us, we've got it all under control! When you're finished with my FA, Riddle is going to love you!"

_But I don't want him to love me, and I don't want your bloody **Fashion Assistence!**_

Seething, Hermione moved on to hurtling spears.

**A/N:**. Review, comment, say hi, what's up, anything! Luv to hear the feedback! Have a _fantastic_ weekend, week everyone! Next update: Shooting for before August 18! Thank you for your support!

Peace out

Lady Moonglow


	24. Have You Ever Danced

**A/N: READ SO YOU DON'T FEEL SHAFTED: **Okay, I have recently received an email letting me know that does not tolerate ANY kind of reader review responses (I can't see why they won't allow that kind of thing), which I don't think is the wisest rule—to put it politely— and I hope they don't kick me off for saying that, because if you guys take the time to write to me, I should at least be able to take the time to write each of you back…. But I don't want them to take the story off, either, and neither do you, I'm sure, so from now on I'll try to answer any questions you may have reviewed me in the authors notes (i.e. right here) without specifying the reviewers. I really do apologize on the unofficial behalf of FANFICTION for this policy that makes an otherwise personal website slightly impersonal, but, as I have said above, I don't like it, and I didn't create it, so don't get upset at me about it, please.

So, **THANK** you** SO MUCH **for all of your **INCREDIBLY AWESOME** reviews—even though I can't respond individually to them. I'm not gonna lie, they really have kept me going. Thank you, too, to everyone who stayed up way too late reading this story or have stuck to the story, even through its sketchy beginnings, and decided that you liked it in the end!

By the way, all of you are SO SMART! You're picking up on so many of the important hints/weird-abnormal-happenings I have stuck in the story, and along those lines… haven't answered any of the amulet questions yet, like why it glows/burns, but I will in a few more chapters. Like I've said, if Hermione doesn't know it, then you don't either, until she does… You'll have to keep guessing until then, I'm afraid.

In other news, I've completely cleared up exactly how this story is going to end, and I'm pretty proud of myself about that, so with the way things are looking, I'd say there are about eight to nine chapters left after this one. Now, on to the questions I've received… FA stands for fashion assistance, which Lavender did say in chapter before last, but it wasn't really obvious so I guess I won't kill you if you didn't notice it, jk. Detroit was way too hot, but it's cooled down considerably in the past two days. Hermione will probably _realize_ that she's fallen in love with Tom—hardcore love, not just like, because I think she already knows that she likes him… about five chapters from now. Any possible hope for a cure for the Curse might make an appearance back in her mind around the same time.

Other than that… keep watching for clues, keep reading!

_Hermione had to be satisfied with simply shooting volley after volley of sharp mental arrows into Draco and Lavender with her furious eyes, nearly frustrated to the threshold of tears, as the pair Levitated her around one of the Christmas trees the Care of Magical Creatures professor had trundled into the Great Hall earlier that afternoon and out of the nearly-finished Great Hall/Holiday Soiree Ballroom toward the Hufflepuff dorms. _

_Lavender smiled at Hermione brightly. "Oh, cheer up, Hermy! Trust us, we've got it all under control! When you've gone through my FA, Riddle is going to love you!"_

_**But I don't want him to love me, and I don't want your bloody Fashion Assistance!**_

_Seething, Hermione moved on to hurtling spears. _

**Chapter 24: Don't Think**

Tuesday, December 21, 1944

9:02 P.M.

The entire ballroom seemed to have completely swirled away into the mist, totally vanished so that Hermione and Tom were the only two people in existence on the entire planet. She was still acutely aware of her hand in Tom's, which he now lightly held against his chest, and his other hand, warmed slightly from its prolonged dancing hold, lightly caressing the skin near the small of her back …

Well, all her senses seemed to be heightened, really, from the sweet taste of the cherry lip gloss Lavender had bountifully painted onto her lips, to the divine scent of a musky, warm cologne positively radiating off Tom that reminded her both of the outdoorsy smell of the wood surrounding the French chateau as well as the fresh, sharp new scent of clean air after a thunderstorm or a brief summer's rain, to the vigorous beat of drums and the piano ringing in her ears, to the gentle brush of her wispy curls against her the side of her face, gently blowing backward with every warm, increasingly shallow breath that the Heir of Slytherin released.

To her horror, Hermione felt her ravenous lips magnetically drawn closer, closer to Tom's handsome face, like someone had attached a string to her neck and was pulling unrelentingly. Immediately, the heart-attack symptoms returned with a cruel vengeance, and her breathing became as ragged as Tom's now was.

Oh God.

Not this.

Not again.

She wasn't ready!

Frantically, with her mind screaming at her to do ten thousand things, none of which included moving any closer to Tom's mouth, Hermione jerked her head and tried to pull away, but, as if she was under the Imperious Curse, none of her muscles seemed to obey her mind…

**Earlier that night**

**7:41 P.M.**

"_Hermione_…Good _Merlin_… You look _fabulous!"_

"Nefertari, the Great Hall has _never_ looked this _bloody good_… Neither have you, actually…. _What_ did you do?"

"Merlin's beard, Mione, if only Viktor could see you now!"

"Oh, shut up, Harry," Hermione grumbled irritably. It felt Friday Night Dance all over again as she stalked away from the massive instrumental platform at the foot of the Great Hall dance floor, a forced grin on her face as she nodded to all her well-wishers, although she had stuck out her tongue at the passing Harry's last impish comment.

Sulkily, she muttered in a remarkably accurate, higher pitched Lavender Brown voice, "_ 'Trust_ us, Hermy! We've got it all under _control,_ Hermy!' _Right,_ those _prats!" _

Although Hermione's physical presence was without question, her mind was miles away as she unenthusiastically trudged along the edge of the Great Hall, dodging a group of giggling fifth years, two of whom were twirling and twirling in wild circles just to see how far their dress robes could billow out before they exhaustedly collapsed in chairs at their small, crowded table.

Hermione couldn't help but be briefly jealous of them, these happy-go-lucky teenager girls without a trouble in the world—or, at least, none of _them_ had self-imploded and traveled back in time fifty years to halt the rise of a Dark Lord.

And that was _without_ the complications.

Sighing tiredly and with nothing better to do, Hermione figured she might as well double check on the moonlight magnolias dotted around the Great Hall doors to ensure that the flowers had actually begun to open, as opposed to wilting and dying after two over-excited sixth year prefects had nearly drowned them in fertilized water earlier that evening.

As far as the Head Girl could tell, the first three-quarters of the night had been a resounding success. Everything about the Holiday Soiree had run smoothly—perfectly, even.

It had taken her twenty minutes to place numerous specialty charms on her man-less orchestra—complete with violins, trumpets, French horns, flutes, clarinets, trombones, drums, a guitar, and a piano—to play a five-hour compilation of both instrumentals and vocals. The soothing rhythm of a graceful waltz flowed from the instruments now.

Nearly Headless Nick hovered nearby, a disgruntled scowl on his face, which he willingly fixed on any student who dared to point and laugh. After Hermione had cornered him near Gryffindor Tower earlier that week and threatened to send out mass poster release of the fact that four hundred and fifty years of his Haunted Hunt applications had been rejected, the ghost had grudgingly agreed to be vocally charmed to keep the latest hits of Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Bing Crosby rolling all night long.

Multitudes of students bedecked in dazzling dress robes of all shapes, sizes, and colors whirled and glided across the mist-enveloped dance floor, some more skilled than others, some with other ideas than dancing on their mind. The time-mist enchantments in themselves had resulted in dramatically supernatural effects, as the hovering fog obscured any view of the leg from the calf down, causing a striking, spirit-like, floating effect as half of those in attendance cut across the floor.

The other half, many being male, had immediately bee-lined for the bench Miranda Wilkes had had so much trouble with earlier that afternoon. It had since been transformed into a magnificently ornate, room-length, multi-layered buffet table.

With the help of innumerous, eager house elves—much to Hermione's chagrin— it now sagged under the weight of elaborate platters of every kind of hors d'oeuvre, drink, and dessert imaginable, and the delectable smells of a hundred different foods mingled together into one mouth-watering aroma that temptingly wafted around the Great Hall Ballroom.

Sprigs of mistletoe gleefully lurked overhead, catching unsuspecting—and oftentimes dismayed—unlikely couples. A large commotion had already broken out when Draco and Ginny fell victim to one minutes after the dance began.

While Ginny had been all for getting the kiss over with, Draco had decided it might be more interesting to see who could wait it out longer, him or the mistletoe. Fifteen minutes into the competition, one prettily pouting Colombia Salvi, and one claw-mark from Ginny later, both Harry and Ron had nearly hexed a smirking Draco into oblivion before he finally relented and kissed the redhead to unlock the charm.

Meanwhile, the sharp, brilliant starlight of a crisp, northern midwinter night twinkled down past the Holiday Soiree's muted, shimmering white, purple, pink, green, red, and blue tiny, floating illuminations and on to the students and professors themselves from above, and fake snowflakes fell in gentle, sporadic waves to the ground, so small they was barely noticeable, but just enough for the winter effect to be complete.

_Everything_ had run smoothly… except her personal life.

Needlessly, Lavender had generously sacrificed her own Holiday Soiree preparation time to style Hermione, and, after her solemn declaration to Draco that she would do everything in her naturally-born-fashion-talented power to make Hermione 'truly worthy of love at first sight,' the Hufflepuff had needed every minute of two hours fuss over Hermione like the Head Girl was no more capable of trendiness than a four year old.

Nearly at the moonlight magnolias, Hermione absently passed one of many shimmering, silver-plated decorative wall coverings, and, her eyesight suddenly snapping back to her right, her feet stopped of their own accord.

Nearly an hour later, and Hermione was still unable to recognize the person staring back at her.

This person, this elegant, sophisticated, breathtaking _woman,_ gazed at Hermione with very much identical latte eyes, but the woman's eyelids were outlined, smudged, and smoky, with just the ideal amount of warm pink rouge accenting her tanned cheekbones. Glittering, cherry gloss painted her lips; her curly, dark chocolate tresses were twisted into an elegant up-do, with defined wisps softly raining around her face and down her neck, a small, pastel pink rose tucked alongside the knot of the twist, attractively contrasting with her hair's darker shade.

Hermione's gaze moved downward, landing on The Dress Robes. They weren't hers. Merlin _forbid_ she ever buy anything even _remotely_ like them. Rather, Lavender had dug them out from somewhere in her trunk, but from the way they fit Hermione, they could have been designed specifically in her honor.

Although Hermione was absolutely drained and felt about ready to transfigure the next person who told her that she looked exceptionally pretty into a bed and collapse into it, the color of the robes alone gave her exposed, "Egyptian" tanned skin —and there was a _lot_ of it— a glowing, rosy aura that gleamed in warm russet-brown hues in what dim light reflected from the moon, stars, and artificial overhead illumination.

As far as anyone else knew, she may have slept twelve hours every night, with catnaps thrown in throughout the day for good measure.

Lavender had to _Immobilus_ a harassed Hermione to get the Head Girl into the soft, pastel pink. Modest in the front, the material draped in a couple loose half-moons around her neck, high enough that the gigantic Amulet of Eras was partially obscured; the silken, partially- translucent pink sleeves loosely fanned out like a knit poncho at her shoulders and flowed down her arms past her elbows, giving her movements something of a free, airy feeling. Yes; that, Hermione could handle.

It was the back of the robes that had left Hermione wanting to sprint, kicking and screaming, for the Hufflepuff portrait hole.

Continuing on from the voluminous sleeves sleeves, the sheer robes clung to Hermione's slender hourglass form, and the soft material dipped like a U, leaving her smooth skin bare all the way down past her shoulders…past her waist… even past the small of her back…

Down, down went the dippy-do… _Finally,_ it gathered in a few elegant crescent moons at the last possible inch before Dippet would have had Hermione thrown out of Hogwarts for indecency, and then sleekly fell to the floor with the rest of the silky, flowy material.

She had never worn anything so revealing in her entire _life,_ and, after the downright appalling amount of unwanted attention she had been receiving from boys of all ages since she had stuck one stilettoed foot into the Great Hall Ballroom—most of whom she didn't even _know—_ Hermione swore to the gods that she never would again.

So why had this woman, this mature, unfamiliar reflection staring back at her… Why had she even _stood_ for all this? _How_ had she stood for it for so long, rather than immediately going back to her Head bedroom before the Soiree had started and changing into something less…form-fitting?

The waltz ended, and the enchanted Nearly Headless Nick began to twirl across the stage, still scowling but sounding suspiciously like Perry Como, the amplified words of 'Home For the Holidays' ringing through the Great Hall as a flash of cameras concurrently took photos of the reluctantly dancing ghost.

Smiling at the success of her randomly inspired idea, Hermione twisted around so her exposed back was facing the mirror, distractedly noticing as the soft, pastel material flowed delicately around her legs with the slightest of body movements and swished quietly to a stop amongst the mist. Shaking herself out of it, she cocked her head over her shoulder and critically studied the dangerously low cut, wondering if she had just enough time to transfigure it up a few inches before—

"Stop gawking at yourself, Nef, every man in this place is already doing enough of that for you," A familiar, confident drawl purred in her ear, and Hermione was hardly surprised, though she was hardly pleased, when Draco spun her around from behind, catching her hand, and pulled her out onto the dance floor as a pulse of searing heat simultaneously erupted from the Amulet of Eras. "Let's dance, shall we?"

Hermione clutched her neck with one hand and tried to resist his pull with the other. Moving gracefully while he began to suavely foxtrot his way through the crowd of dancers to the upbeat tempo was among the least of her concerns, and she spluttered furiously, "Draco, _you…_ you are…."

"I think the word you're searching for is devilishly good looking," Draco helpfully supplied, a knowing smirk spreading across his aristocratic face. And there really was no doubt that Draco did look delicious; his expensive black dress robes and well-fitted suit that sharply contrasted with his loose platinum shock of hair, as well as many girls' killer glares of which Hermione was at the receiving end were testimony to it.

It may have just been Hermione's new grudge, though, but it seemed that the Slytherin also looked a bit more high-on-himself than usual tonight.

"I can't _say_ the word I'm searching for because there are forth years present!" Hermione hissed irritatedly, surreptitiously glancing around the huge but crowded dance floor. Her clandestine search was cut short when he expertly steered her in into a difficult cross body maneuver and backward spin without much warning, and it was only her years of experience that kept her from falling flat on her face.

As soon as she was dancing in a relatively straight path again, Hermione nailed Draco with an expressively clear 'don't you _ever_ do that again!' glare and growled, "Anyway, I'm not here with you!"

"And _I'm_ not here with _you,_ Nef. That doesn't mean laying a _finger_ on you is a bloody crime. Colombia said she didn't mind my running off, as long as I promised to come back… eventually…" The tall blond smirked again. "Anyway, I don't see the Dark Lord hanging off your side, ready to shoot an Unforgivable at anyone who dares set foot within two yards of you, so I should think I'm relatively safe, for now."

_But… you don't **understand!**_ Hermione thought wearily, her mind still trying to break away from Draco, though her body had given up the attempt and had resigned itself to following him across the dance floor for the time being. _None_ of them did! _She_ hardly understood herself, even—not really, anyway.

All she _did_ know was that, when she had left Tom Riddle in the Hospital Wing the night before…she had suddenly, inexplicably wanted him to live.

Since then, her rational side that convinced her that she was just being selfish.

Tired, irritated, and just not in the mood for Draco's flirty cattiness, Hermione waited until after he and she weaved between a group of dancing couples, and she reached up, giving his shoulder a good shove without much regret. "Don't you _dare_ try to lighten the subject by being cute!"

Draco actually smiled without smirking, gazing down on her with wide, clear azure eyes as both his and her feet stopped moving, checking with the song's musical pause for a single beat. "It's hard for me to not be cute."

"Vanity, thy name is man," Hermione muttered to herself as the thump of the drums began again, as did their steps. Without a second thought, she deliberately moved into a cruzara cross-over step, purposely grinding her heel into his foot in the tight footwork.

"And _yes,_ for your information, Tom's actually doing something _productive,"_ she added sourly, ignoring his muffled, injured yelp and immediately limping, jerky stride as she continued into a small turn. "Since I set up most of the decorations, he's giving Dippet and the professors the tour portion of the deal—of what enchantments I used and such. We've both been so busy, I haven't even _seen_ him yet."

"On a first name basis, now, are you?" Draco inquired innocently, quickly pulling her in a swift turn toward the center of the dance floor as he continued, "No need for you to go off and _defend_ the would-be parent murderer."

In the midst of another annoyed frown, Hermione let out a muffled, surprised shriek, her heart plunging to the floor along with the rest of her body as he unexpectedly dipped her all the way backwards, her spine arching in a perfect parabola, her left foot instinctively brushing the outside of his leg as it shot halfway into the air for balance, his warm hand precariously supporting her back, until the very top of her up-do disappeared into the mist, probably in payment for her stepping on his foot, the prat.

_Bloody…hell…_ Hermione's worn out mind choked dizzily, adrenaline shooting through her veins, her heart still hammering from the completely unexpected, abrupt almost-head-dive into the ground, and after a moment of intense concentration and through a haze of cobwebs, she managed to string together his last sentence. _Defending_ him, was that _really_ what she was doing?

Hermione bristled and bit her tongue, feeling the blood began to rush to her head, having been accused of the same thing twice in that many days. Both times by a Malfoy, no less. Her temples beginning to pound, her leg swaying dangerously, she settled on tartly retorting, "I don't even see why I'm talking to you at all, after what you did to me this afternoon."

_Yeah, that's right. Answer me that, D, and then pull me up before I risk paralyzing myself to kick you in the face, blast it!_

Still balancing the brunette backward on his right hand and partly on his knee, Draco tossed some long, loose strands of blond hair out of his face and ran his eyes all the way down the length of her body and back up again. "Oh, trust me, Nef, you'll be thanking me in the long run."

Right as her forehead felt about ready to _explode,_ he pulled her vertical, and, before she could even catch her breath, he expertly winded her into him with a small tug of his hand like she was a coiled spring, wrapping one arm around her when her back was against his and then catching both of her hands in his Quiddich grip. In an exceedingly smug tone, he drawled, "Did I mention that you look absolutely, breathtakingly spectacular tonight?"

_Oh, he did **not** just go there, _the rational half and virtuous half of her mind snarled simultaneously. Heatedly, Hermione twisted her neck around to give him her dirtiest glower yet, and sarcasm positively dripped from her voice as she retorted snappishly, "Gee, Draco, _thanks."_

After the fashion torture he had directly aided in subjecting her to earlier, as well as his apparent intention to bring up Tom Riddle's possible fate at every turn of the music, Hermione no longer felt the need nor the desire to dance with Draco du Lac. With a jerk of her shoulders, she tried get out of the curl, but Draco's weekly Beater tutorials with Calugala Malfoy had paid off, and his seasoned arms held her locked in place.

The moon slipped behind a cloud, casting a shadow over Draco's fair, flawless face, and, in a huff, Hermione resignedly swung her head to face forward again. She could feel the Slytherin breathing down her neck in hot, burning puffs of air as he drew his platinum head close to her ear and whispered silkily, "One look at you, Nef, one _tiny little glimpse,_ and into Irreversible he goes…"

The familiar, lighthearted strains of Nat King Cole's _Caroling, Caroling_ did absolutely nothing to placate neither Hermione's conscious nor her nerves. Instead, a light, nervous sweat broke out around her forehead, and she felt feverish, she knew she did, felt like throwing up right on Draco, the perfect end to a perfect day…and she was also struck by the sudden urge to rip herself away, blast a clear path though the center of the dance floor, and flee the Great Hall Ballroom.

Tonight, the last thing Hermione wanted to look was spectacular. She definitely didn't feel spectacular. More like spectacularly _exhausted._

_Why is he **doing** this?_ Hermione mentally screamed, bewildered, wriggling furiously in Draco's arms, but to no avail. Simultaneously, she noticed… the Amulet of Eras. Glowing. _Again._

Suddenly frustrated that she had no idea why, _why_ it picked such selective times to do what it did, to _burn,_ or to _glow,_ she fought back tears of confusion, resentment, and anger at her uncomfortable lack of comprehension and her more-than-uncomfortable situation.

More than anything else, Hermione liked to be in control, as do most people. Not control over others, per say, but… at least in control of _something._ If _everything_ was all but lost, even when she had been stuck in battles with Death Eaters back in her time with little hope of survival, she had always comforted herself in that she still had her mind, she would _always_ have her mind and her knowledge. And, clinging to that fact, she had always survived.

But now, what was _happening_ to her now? What could she do when the one thing she had _always_ had and had _always_ trusted with the very depths of her soul seemed to be telling her two very different things, tearing her in two separate directions — each one very unacceptable in itself— or, even worse, couldn't tell her anything at all? Why was she _loosing_ it like this?

_Dear God._

The thought struck Hermione quite suddenly, and her blood chilled, her hands turning icy cold in less than two seconds.

_The gods are punishing me for what I'm doing. That must be it. I am going to go to magical hell._

Her rational mind immediately scoffed at the idea and threw it into the rubbish bin. _Hermione! Hermione, what are you **thinking?** Grow **up,** he's hated Lord Voldemort longer than you have, probably, and he just wants to see the problem dealt with as quickly as possible. **You're** the one who's being stupid, feeling guilty about what you're doing…_

Even so, Hermione was still undeniably surprised and even slightly alarmed by Draco's atypically malevolent attitude, and she finally whispered apprehensively, in as quiet a voice she could manage, "Draco, what has gotten _into_ you?" Again endeavoring to yank herself loose, she added in an angry hiss, "Let _go_ of me!"

Deftly, quickly spinning her around to face him, his grip around her still strong so she couldn't wrench herself away, the blond Slytherin merely smirked in reply, and he appeared to be more occupied with studying something over her shoulder. Finally, blessedly, he chuckled enigmatically, "As you wish, Nef," and, on the _'GING' _of Nearly Headless Nick's crooned out, "Christmas bells are RING-_GING!"_ Draco twirled her out into the throng of dancers.

"My _God!_ DRACO—_oof!"_ Hermione's mind was too lost-in-thought to supply her with any respectable reflexes, and all the air in her lungs rushed out of her chest as she unsteadily collided, none too gently, with something solid, cool, and unexpectedly springy.

Her balance all but completely spent, Hermione bounced backward off the object like a ping-pong ball, and no doubt would have successfully plunged headfirst into the mist-covered floor …had the solid, cool, and unexpectedly springy object not swiftly reached out and grabbed her, two strong hands supporting her over-extended back before she could fall.

_Oh thank God._

Hermione gasped in the lost air in several rapid gulps, her neck sorely stiff, and she woozily steadied herself, her heart not having stopped its frantic gauntlet since she had begun to dance with Draco. Cautiously straightening up, Hermione squinted in the darkness, trying to make out the face of the buffer between her head and the dance floor. Simultaneously, the moon burst forth from behind the clouds…

And Hermione had never in her life expected that she could be so relieved to see the stormy gray eyes of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

But… It _couldn't_ be Tom Riddle, Hermione thought dumbly as she stood back and openly gaped, agog, her eyes drinking in the unexpected sight before her.

Tom Riddle always wore a _uniform._

The dark-haired man before her, still casually steadying her side with one hand, was dressed in a handsome, sophisticated dress robe, dark, but not so dark that she couldn't tell whether it was a deep forest green or a black; the debonair cut of it, the classy three-piece he wore under it, and the poised way he carried himself giving him all the air of a wizarding James Bond.

Above all, Hermione considered herself a scholar, but she was also a woman. She could see as well as anyone else that if Draco had won first place in the Most Attractive Blonds category tonight, whoever this guy was had most definitely taken the same prize in the darker class of hair color, or at least tied with Harry for it. And she wasn't even being biased.

"Nefertari, you of all people should know that running into people like that… on a dark dance floor… can be dangerous." Yes, medium melodic, cynical with a bit of an Irish lilt, that was definitely Tom Riddle's voice, must be him, she registered mutely as he nonchalantly held out his hand and asked, his tone forced, intentionally apathetic, "Care to?"

"Sure," she said feebly, although, after her whirlwind of a sweep with Draco, neither her equilibrium nor her suddenly weak knees especially felt up to a choppy dance by someone who probably had little to no experience in the art of–

_Sweet Merlin. _Her concern froze numbly in her mind as Tom firmly took her right hand in his left, quickly checked over his shoulder, and began to smoothly, gracefully lead her into a leisurely, soothing four-step to Frank Sinatra's equally leisurely and soothing _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,_ blending his movements quite proficiently so that Hermione felt as if she actually _was_ serenely floating across the floor… As if he knew that she couldn't handle much more movement than that at the moment.

_**Tom Riddle can dance. ? **_

It was both a question and a statement.

"I gather that you and du Lac were getting a bit rough out there, Nefertari," Tom commented emotionlessly, either not noticing or not reacting to Hermione's unabashed incredulity. His eyes though, spoke leagues for him… were they concerned, or was that jealousy she saw?

"You could say that," Hermione muttered, feeling her racing heart start to slow, the tension in her neck, her back inadvertently beginning to ease, but she was too inundated with pure shock that the young Heir of Slytherin had, out of the blue, turned into an attractive mix of 007 and Fred Astaire to say much of anything else.

Wanting to kick herself, she licked her lips, and the vivid flavor of cherry entered her mouth. _Come **on, **Mione, small talk is your specialty! Say **something!**_ "Erm… how did the tour go over?"

Tom gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders, his gray eyes never leaving her warm brown ones. "Of course they all adored it, Nefertari. Your shameless use of every advanced decoration charm since the creation of the wand left every one of them in awe."

Phyllis Hardiman and Jacobson Andrews whirled by, intentionally slowing their pace behind Tom. Catching Hermione's gaze, Phyllis nodded at the Head Boy and gave Hermione a sly wink and a discreet thumbs-up before the two good-natured Gryffindors twirled off again. _No! Don't think that! _Hermione's mouth dropped open an half-inch and her eyes widened in disbelief at the insinuation Phyllis had made, and she wrinkled her nose, irritatedly feeling a blush creep up the side of her neck. _We're not like that!_

Hastily, she returned her gaze to Tom and modestly mirrored his shrug. "It wasn't that much."

"Oh, but it was." His eyes suddenly moved downward, and he seemed to be momentarily gauging the stability in her steps before he opened up his hold, maneuvering her in a careful circle. "I've only been able to complete the time-release mist enchantment twice, and you got it on your first try. That means you're good."

A slight smile made its way onto Hermione's face at his method of determining ability, but she shrugged again, her now-relaxed mind beginning to tense up again. She had long since realized how remarkably easily spells that should have been _extremely_ difficult were becoming for her. Almost in a reflex, she glanced down at the half-hidden Amulet of Eras, frowning thoughtfully, albeit relievedly, when she noticed that it was no longer glowing.

She was going to have to read up on that, and _soon. _

Without wasting a moment, Hermione decided to steer the conversation toward something much more superficial, and, therefore, much more safe. Smile still on her face, she lightly placed a hand on his chest to slow him as they reached a relatively cleared end of the floor. Releasing his hand, she reached up and pretended to straighten his dark dress robes, brushing off imaginary dust on his shoulders. "For feeling awful yesterday, you certainly cleaned up rather well."

Hermione mentally cringed at the gross understatement.

Tom Riddle had not cleaned up rather well; he had cleaned up _incredibly_ well. The faint, dark stubble that had been budding around his jaw the night before was completely gone. Fake snowflakes had begun to dot throughout his thick, soft, almost meticulously groomed hair, but this time, rather than simply parting it the left, he had let a few of the ends begin to curl loosely into and off of his face, almost as if he had stood in a wind tunnel before he had arrived at the Soiree. His skin, or, at least his _face,_ although still noticeably thin, had lost its sickly, ashen pallor, and his calculating, intelligent eyes, no longer appeared exhausted, somehow, but completely…_alive._

The Slytherin, however, hardly blinked in response. As Nearly Headless Nick's lyrics faded with "And _have_ yourselves a _merry_ little Christmas…._noooow,"_ and the dancing paused as the music changed, Tom's piercing gaze abruptly shifted downward, off her face, and he tonelessly threw out, "I'm sure that any compliment of mine would hardly compare to the rest of the compilation you've undoubtedly received tonight."

Hermione let out a dignified little snort and turned her head away, absently scrutinizing the banquet table immediately to her right. Her stomach, which hadn't held food for a little over twelve hours, let out a greedy little rumble, and she wondered if there was any way she could swipe a few cranberry custard crumpets and levitate them into her mouth without anyone, Tom Riddle most of all, noticing.

Of course, she couldn't exactly expect the Heir of Slytherin to go throwing out compliments like they were confetti. Oddly, though, she was surprised to find that there, floating in the corner of her mind, was a tinge of …disappointment.

Unsettlingly, Hermione slipped her hand back into Tom's as the violin, flute and trumpet orchestral section began a brief, peaceful Christmas waltz interlude, allowing him to expertly sweep her away from the food table and in an smooth arc around the edge of the dance floor. Their movements were so graceful that several of the younger students actually moved out of their way, just watching, as both Tom and Hermione appeared to be moving in one smooth, unbroken horizontal line with an occasional up curve or down dip, rather than with any sign of jagged vertical bouncing.

Unexpectedly, it was Tom who spoke again, his voice haltingly vacillating, as if he wasn't sure he should be saying what he was saying as he said it. "But… for what… it's worth…"

Hermione's expectant eyes shot back up to lock on his completely unreadable ones. "Yes?"

Never once did his steady gaze even travel to Hermione's stunning attire, nor did it ever leave her face, for that matter. Tom Riddle shook his head slightly, the top of his dark hair shining mutely in the moonlight, and he muttered in the same low, emotionally loaded voice that Hermione had heard exit his mouth only a handful of times, "Nefertari, you don't need me to tell you that you're beautiful."

A wrench violently twisted in Hermione's heart as it sped up of its own accord, squeezed it so hard she could hardly breathe. Holding back a gasp, rapidly collecting her swirling emotions, Hermione gently smiled up at the tall Slytherin, as if to thank him for the compliment without coming right out and saying it, and then keenly asked the question that had been on her mind for ten minutes. "Where'd you learn to dance so well?"

A hint of a smirk tugged at the right side of Tom's mouth, his assuredness returning. "I'm a fast learner."

_Right, there is **no** humanly possible way that anyone is **that** fast when it comes to dancing._ Hermione couldn't help but laugh, lightly and airily. Miraculously, it was a huge stress reliever, and she felt well enough to teasingly counter, "Like hell you are," waiting for him to continue. When it was obvious that he wasn't, she arched a thin eyebrow at him. "Well? That's not all I'm going to get out of you, is it?"

Tom paused indecisively, although his feet continued to move skillfully. He spun her in a circle again, more tightly this time as the pounding in Hermione's head had lessened and she was slowly sliding into a better mood, sending a patch of mist twirling up around her dress robes, and pulled her back into his grasp. Finally, he said quietly, "D'you want to know the truth?"

An amused grin pulled at Hermione's lips. _"That_ would probably be just a bit helpful."

Surreptitiously glancing around, as if to make sure no one else was paying attention, Tom cleared his throat, his eyes not meeting hers, and muttered, his words progressively gaining speed until they nearly jumbled together incoherently, "I couldn't dance to save my life… not that I even cared about it, really… until I saw you… and du Lac… at the Friday Night Dance or whatever it's called that you throw every week... and ."

'_And I thought it might be a good thing that I learn…'_ she translated mentally, then systematically moved the line to the analyzing section of her brain. _But **why** would he want to…Oh my God._

Hermione's tongue immediately tied, and, although Tom's step gave no indication that he was anything but confident, he seemed to be regarding her with a certain nervousness in his eyes, his uneasiness only appearing to amplify the longer she stood there silently, not knowing, not _wanting_ to know exactly what to make of his confession.

"Well, learn you definitely did," Hermione finally mused to herself, stating the blatantly obvious as Nearly Headless Nick launched into the to the suave, jumpy beat of Nat King Cole's_ 'L-O-V-E,'_ the _Tenorus_ charm actually giving his voice all the charisma of Nat King Cole… although his irritated scowl definitely subtracted from it, and he was beginning to creepily remind Hermione of Severus Snape.

_Oh, blast it all._

Already juggling more than she could take, Hermione determinedly decided _not_ to think for the remainder of the night, and she cocked her head to the right, mischievously gazing up at the towering Slytherin, a daring grin slowly spreading across her face. "Let's see just _how_ well you learned, shall we?"

Tom's shoulders actually seemed to sag in relief, his gaze immediately sharpening as he picked up on the challenge, and they both simultaneously picked up the pace of the upbeat tempo. Four lines into the song, though, the brunette took her hand off his shoulder and held it up, stopping him. "Listen, Tom," she said, her breath coming in tiny puffs, "You know all the steps perfectly. _Perfectly."_ And he did. "But you have to _relax." _

Without pausing to think about her actions, Hermione reached under his arm around to his stiff back and gently pressed right below the middle of his two shoulder blades, loosening his spine. The Heir of Slytherin stood limply, letting her mold him, and she soothingly progressed down his entire back, could actually feel his muscles concaving slightly, relaxing under her therapeutic touch. "Trust me when I say that dancing is about having fun, not imitating a board."

As laughing, joking, and oftentimes kissing dancing students whirled by in swirls of mist, Hermione paused, torn, wondered if she should. _No!_ Rational Angel barked. _Don't you **dare,** Hermione Granger Dumbledore Nefertari!_

_Yes, yes!_ The contrary yogic voice in her ear actually sounded a bit breathless and energized versus its normally serene self. _Do it!_

_Don't think, don't think, don't think…_

Before the song could progress much further than the first verse, Hermione added quickly, "And, you need to have enough of a hold so you can lead, but not control."

And she voluntarily brought herself closer to the Heir of Slytherin than she had _ever_ been, distantly repeating, _"Never_ control."

Closing her eyes, releasing a deep breath of pent-up anxiety that she had been carrying around for half the night, Hermione ran the same hand that had been on Tom's back down his motionless right arm, found his cool hand, and unhesitatingly wrapped his arm more tightly around her, resting his hand on the smooth, bare skin of the small of her back. "Dancing isn't about controlling; it's about the give and take of both sides."

In the process, she was obviously thrust so that she was hardly a heartbeat away from his handsome dress robes, so close that she became more and more aware of his breath near her forehead, warm, almost comforting, not sizzling and sticky like Draco's had been. Doing her best to ignore her increasingly hammering heart, she added thoughtfully, "A bit like life, isn't it?"

To say that Tom Riddle was taken aback would be like saying that Albus Dumbledore was a pretty good wizard, Hermione decided as her gaze moved up, meeting Tom's wide, dazed, stormy eyes. She smiled reassuringly when she saw the question in them, taking comfort in the idea that she wasn't the only uneasy one at the Holiday Soiree that night.

Past the point of even considering whom the person she was now pressed against with might become, Hermione carefully, lightly replaced her left hand on his shoulder and slid her right hand back into his, straightening her shoulders, her stomach jumping, twisting, flying in little circles as she felt his fingers tighten around hers, and felt the right side of her lips tug upward into a small smile. "And then, you let your emotions do the work for you."

Almost immediately, Tom shed his look of uncertainty and threw back on his composed self-assurance, and in a knowing, nearly back-to-normal way, he smirked, "And trust _me_ when _I_ say, don't forget to hang on."

As the trumpet solo of the song ending and Nearly Headless Nick launched into the last chorus with an enthusiastic _"L!_ Is for the way you _look_ at me!" he slipped his arm even farther around her waist and led her into a full spin, his floor craft nothing short of sensational for a beginner as both he and she maneuvered rapidly, adeptly, and controllably past several couples.

After signaling with his hand, Tom dipped her into a drop so that she arched back and swept her hand against the floor, but he just as quickly pulled her back up. As soon as he did, Hermione caught his gray eyes and tilted her head toward the swarming center of the dance floor.

As if reading her mind, Tom smiled slightly and pivoted speedily, and they weaved themselves through the horde, Tom pausing every few seconds as he shrewdly assessed the openings in the floor and seized their chances to slide though, Hermione grinning impishly as she gleefully swiped at the back of Ron's unmistakable, towering red head, laughing as she and Tom swept by him so quickly that by the time Ron whirled around suspiciously, the two Heads of the student body were long gone.

As they successfully popped out of the crowd on the other side of the dance floor and with the end of the song upon them, Hermione decided to throw in a slide. As she stepped around to his left to initiate the move, he followed her deftly, apparently anticipating her exact move, and pulled her back into him as she finished, spinning her into the same twist that Draco had caught her in earlier. This time, thought, Tom held her loosely enough that she could add one more half-turn to the sequence, so she finished the wind-in facing him.

"_Whew!"_

On this last beat, Hermione actually threw her arms around Tom's neck, running into him as she lagged to a stop as she oftentimes did with Draco after they had finished an intense dance sequence, her right cheek leaning against his shoulder, completely winded, not even bothering to move again as Nick immediately broke into _While Christmas,_ the ghost looking more and more sour as the night went on. _"Must… breathe…"_

As she did so, Tom stiffened and actually staggered a step backward, even though he was perfectly capable of holding her petite weight. Not noticing his discomfort, Hermione balanced against him and his soft, forest green/black dress robes, not caring how he had gotten them or where he gotten them from, only knowing that she was tired, and they felt good, feeling his rapid heartbeat and heaving chest just as vividly as she did hers.

Leaning on him for support as she waited for her breaths to even out and her racing heart to calm, Hermione _was_ having a bit of difficulty with the latter as, ever-so-slowly, Tom carefully wrapped both of his arms snugly around her small waist. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw him start to lower his head so it could rest against the side of hers… and stop himself at the last minute.

In extreme astonishment and grudgingly growing respect, Hermione lightly pulled herself off him a bit so she could look him in the face, and she wheezed breathlessly, smiling incredulously, "You taught yourself to dance _this well_ in only a month and a _half?"_

She resisted adding, _"Just_ because you saw Draco and me dancing?"

Tom shrugged and dipped his head in an almost indecipherable nod, panting a bit, a weak little smirk on his face that had broken out the minute Hermione had started to smile. "Probably not one of my most brilliant ways to pass the time, I'll admit, but I…"

Unexpectedly, he trailed off, the half-smile gradually fading. After shooting her a curiously hesitant glance—_Hesitant? Come** on,** Mione, Tom Riddle is **not** hesitant!_— he loosened his left hand's firm grasp and slowly, guardedly lifted it toward her face.

The only indications of the turmoil within Hermione were her eyes, which wasted no time in widening ever-so-slightly, and her mind screamed at her to _MOVE! MOVE **BACK!**_ … But something else kept her neck muscles—her entire _body_—relaxed and in place.

_Don't think, don't think…_

An inch or so before he made contact, Tom indecisively drew his hand away. A moment later, though, he reached back out and smoothly tucked behind her ear a small curl of soft, dark hair that had fallen during her heated dance with Draco. His long fingers lingered near her ear and eventually traced their way down the smooth jaw line of her slender heart-shaped face.

With a nearly undetectable sigh, he dropped his hand to his side and tipped his head down toward the mist-covered floor. The uncharacteristically tentative expression returned to his face; tentative, but that alone caused it to be deliciously assertive in so many ways, and he gently took her right hand back in his, tilting downward a bit further so he could lean his forehead against hers.

_Good Merlin, he's going to kiss me._

The realization slammed into Hermione like a sledgehammer, and her heart started to pound heavily, so hard she nearly passed out from the rush of blood to her brain. She felt like someone had spun the temperature dial in the Great Hall from 'comfortably cool' to 'swelteringly roasting,' and she fervently prayed to the magic gods that she was convinced had already condemned her, prayed that her hands wouldn't start to sweat, that she wouldn't give any indication that she was actually getting worked up about this.

_Oh God… Oh God… I can't do this…I just can't…_

_Don't think, don't think…_

But, rather than closing the very very small gap between his lips and hers, Tom cautiously lifted her hand up to his mouth and briefly, lightly, brushed his lips against the tops of her fingers, so lightly that his touch felt, to Hermione's hand—which she fought to keep from shaking— like nothing more than a gentle, warm tickle, a passing summer breeze.

A moment later, the Slytherin retreated backward an inch or so, but his eyes were still locked on hers, so close that she could see those stubborn specks of blue dotted throughout the gray like fresh blueberries in an otherwise sordid muffin.

"But I like to think it was time well spent," he softly finished.

A burning tingle began at the tip of Hermione's kissed fingers and ran straight through every nerve in her body. She dared not move, dared not _breathe,_ even as the superb man-less orchestra launched into one of her favorite dances, an east coast swing, and students who clearly could not even hope to compete with the likes of her and Tom and Draco sportingly picked up the attempt anyway.

No, the entire ballroom seemed to have completely swirled away into the mist, totally vanished away so that she and Tom were the only two people in existence on the entire planet. She was still acutely aware of her hand in Tom's, which he now lightly held against his chest, and his other hand, warmed slightly from its prolonged dancing hold, lightly caressing the skin near the small of her back…

Well, all her senses seemed to be heightened, really, from the sweet taste of the cherry lip gloss Lavender had bountifully painted onto her lips, to the divine scent of a musky, warm cologne positively radiating off Tom that reminded her both of the outdoorsy smell of the wood surrounding the French chateau as well as the fresh, sharp new scent of clean air after a thunderstorm or a brief summer's rain, to the vigorous beat of drums and the piano ringing in her ears, to the gentle brush of her wispy curls against her the side of her face, gently blowing backward with every warm, increasingly shallow breath that the Heir of Slytherin released.

To her horror, Hermione felt her ravenous lips magnetically drawn closer, closer to Tom's handsome, etched face, like someone had attached a string to her neck and was pulling unrelentingly. Immediately, the heart-attack symptoms returned with a cruel vengeance, and her breathing became as ragged as Tom's now was.

Good Merlin.

Not this.

Not again.

She wasn't ready!

Frantically, with her mind screaming at her to do ten thousand things, none of which included moving any closer to Tom's mouth, Hermione jerked her head and tried to pull away, but, as if she was under the Imperious Curse, none of her muscles seemed to obey her mind…

And the world began spinning with a sickening jolt as, a heartbeat away from his lips, utter agony flashed across Tom's blue-gray eyes, and he silently crumpled to the ground with such grace one would think he had been planning it that way, the mist swirling over to cover him so that it appeared as if he had totally and completely vanished from the ballroom itself.

Any remaining rational thought flew from Hermione's head like she had pressed an _Eject_ button, and she stared blankly at the spot where the Heir of Slytherin had disappeared, vaguely wondering if he had Disapperated. He had seemed fine a moment before, just… just _fine…_

_No, you idiot, wake up! **Think! Think!** _her mind shrilled upon deaf ears. _Nobody can Disapperate in Hogwarts!_

The blasting, high-speed music now grated harshly in Hermione's ears in sync with her hammering heart, a multitude of colored dress robes dizzyingly twirled by, the colors running together, blending into one big mess of swirl, the smell of food was so nauseously overpowering that the brunette was certain that she was going to be sick even though she hadn't eaten for more than half a day…

And Tom Riddle was gone.

Some instinctive autopilot spurred Hermione into physically action, and she immediately fell to her knees, cursing herself for leaving her wand with Dumbledore for the night, which was, in itself, still young; who even _knew_ where Dumbledore was right now? Taking dancing lessons from Headmaster Dippet and Madam Lamberdeau? Sitting in his charms classroom on the third floor grading papers? Popping lemon drops and drinking so many bottles of butterbeer with the seventh years that even _he_ would be of no help to her?

Plunging her hands down into the mist, Hermione frantically felt around the ground until she found an arm. Gritting her teeth, summoning every ounce of strength in her, she heaved it and the body attached to it toward her, running her hands up soft dress robe sleeves until she found a neck, and then a head. Reaching beneath what she assumed were his two shoulders, she hauled him up, and Tom's ashen, unconscious face rose above the fog.

Hermione gasped in relief, but just as quickly went into panic mode once more at how cold his skin felt. "H-hey!" she finally whispered, finding her tongue. It felt like sandpaper, a deadweight in her mouth. Louder, she repeated over the blaring music, "Hey! Somebody, _anybody!_ I…I need help over here!" It was a pitiful attempt, she knew.

Of course, Tom _had_ to pass out in the farthest corner of the dance floor, farthest from the band, farthest from the food table, and therefore, farthest from the majority of Holiday Soiree attendees, professors included.

Still gaping in a kind of disbelieving horror at Tom's inert body, or what she could see of it, Hermione shifted him, pulling him up against her chest and wrapping her arm tightly around him so he was partially upright, his head limply hanging against her shoulder, the dark hair spilling into his face making his already pale skin look absolutely colorless, his weak breaths puffing jaggedly against her bare skin.

Thank Merlin, at least he hadn't died. She still had time.

Twisting her neck around so she could properly see the passing people, Hermione yelled again, more forcefully, "SOMEBODY, _HELP_—Draco, thank _God,"_ she breathed, nearly breaking down into tears in a combination of relief, worry, and fatigue as the first couple that glided by happened to be Draco and Colombia Salvi.

As soon as the show-stopping duo came into range, Hermione's voice raised a notch in desperation. "Draco, Madam L, I need Madam L _right now_—Draco, stop smirking!" she hissed frenetically as, rather than running for the professors as Hermione would have immediately done, the platinum blond stepped back and calculatingly surveyed the scene before him, from the comatose young Dark Lord to the exhausted, frantic Head Girl, his poise and the smug expression on his face causing him looking remarkably like his grandfather—something that didn't occur as often as one would have expected, but when it did, the resemblance was eerie.

_What is **wrong** with you?_ Hermione thought hysterically as, like the Cheshire cat himself, a wide smile slowly spread across his face._ Go get help!_

Draco, though, merely raised his eyebrows knowingly at Hermione, glancing sideways at the impatiently waiting—and obviously unconcerned—Colombia Salvi before turning back to the brunette and tipping his head toward her, "You know what this means, don't you, Nef?" he asked in a low, pleased-with-himself voice. "Didn't I _tell_ you that you'd thank me eventually—"

"_GO GET MADAM LAMBERDEAU!"_ Hermione screamed, and probably would have waved her fist ferociously had she not been cradling Tom Riddle in her arms. Her angry screech had finally warranted the much-wanted attention of nearly twenty couples in the nearby vicinity, one of them being Harry and Ginny.

While Harry took one glance at the frantic Hermione and cut across the dance floor toward the professor table, Draco's eyebrows shot up again, and the Slytherin held up his hands, backing a few steps away from her. "Alright, _alright,_ Nef, calm _down,"_ he drawled, tilting his head in Ginny's now partner-less direction. "I think you and your little war call back there may just have been enough to get some _heroes_ into action without any additional effort on my part."

"Well, heaven forbid you break a sweat," Hermione retorted scathingly, pure acid in her voice that she didn't even bother to mask. Tonight, Draco du Lac had risen at least one level above that of occasionally annoying, spoiled rich-kid prat, and she was going to let him know it.

At that point, Hermione's mind decided it would be much easier to simply ignore him, trusting, from his comment, that one of the other students was off to find Madam L, and she tilted her head back down to Tom, that damn mist still swirling around about a foot off the ground, so that she could only see herself from her waist up, both her legs and his obscured by the fog. The top of his lifeless head and flyaway hair partially brushed against the left side of her chin as she took his limp wrist in her trembling fingers and felt for a pulse.

The faint, hardly detectable beat she got back was not a reassuring one.

"Congratulations, Nef," an all-to-familiar voice purred into her ear so there was no possible way that her panicking, overwhelmed, vexed, worn out, and thoroughly disgusted mind could block him out. "You just _personally_ stamped the death sentence on Lord Voldemort's exit papers."

And, her back stiffening rigidly, giving herself a reassuringly authoritative height even though she was sitting flat on the hard, smooth wood of the dance floor, Hermione totally, completely lost it.

"Draco du Lac, get the _bloody _hell out of here _now!"_ she bellowed shrilly, releasing her hold on Tom's wrist and irately jabbing a finger toward the throng of students, several of whom were already beginning to crowd around their fallen Head Boy and hysterical Head Girl. "Or I will _personally_ deduct a hundred points from Slytherin for the refusal of aid during a crisis!"

Exhausted, Hermione slumped back down, just in time to see Harry, bless the boy-who-lived, dragging Madam L though the haze of dancers. The onlookers' voices had begun to swim in her ears like some distant buzzing through a seashell, and her fuming, frenetic vision began to cloud, not with red, but with a dull yellow tinge that was swiftly followed by a fuzzy black.

And then the fingers of mist completely encircled her exhausted line of sight, and Hermione collapsed in a heap beside the already-unconscious Tom Riddle.

**A/N:**. Poor Hermione. Poor Tom. But hey, I had to do what I had to do. And there, I gave you a kiss, sort of. Not a proper one, I know, but you do have to wait a bit for the good stuff. And no more Amina attacks anymore, right? Review, comment, say hi, what's up, anything! Luv to hear the feedback! Have a _fantastic_ end of week, everyone! And a shout out to all my fellow SENIORS… and Ashley…and Pen Against Sword for that passionate review, though I love you all (and Alana, happy b-day tomorrow and the flirt41—I'm glad you survived your camping trip! OMG, I SO CANNOT DO this no review-reply thing!) **Next update** (after school starts, for me at least, AHHH!) Shooting for before August 30! Thank you for your continual, amazing support!

Peace out

Lady Moonglow

**In future episodes…**

_****Impulsively, she burst out, "Do you regret it, coming last night?"_

_It was a loaded question. On the surface, it was a simple yes or no. Below the surface, though, it held so much meaning. Hermione wasn't just asking if he regretted the Holiday Soiree. Oh, no._

_She was asking if he regretted getting into a situation that caused him to fall in love with her._

_But **Tom** didn't know that, thank Merlin._

_A shiver danced down Hermione's spine as Tom absently began to stroke the back of her hand with his thumb, his stormy eyes becoming pensive. Thoughtful. _

_Finally, he answered._


	25. Have You Ever Learned the Truth

**A/N: REVIEW RESPONSE ANNOUNCEMENT: **Got tipped off for a fabulous idea, and now I'm going to put the normal review response paragraph in my **author's bio**. Check it out. Oh, and if you don't really read my review responses, let me know in your review so I won't write out one for you… No, I'm not trying to brush you off, just trying to save myself time!

As for the chapter, this one's a bit more AU at the end, but I've had this written since before HBP, so… you like it or you don't, I guess that's how everything is in life. This is just a little bit of Tom/Herm. Thought you'd like it. There's no dramatic action; it's pretty stationary, they're no longer waltzing across ballrooms; but I want to show how their relationship doesn't just consist of them constantly craving each other, it's more personal than that, more of a strange little friendship, even. I mean, don't get me wrong, but a lot of stuff based on only the former just doesn't last in the real world, and in Tom/ Hermione's case, they need to be just a tad bit more committed to each other for anything at all to have the chance of working out at the end. And, anyway, there will be lots of action at the end.

Now, Hermione is beginning to admit to herself that she doesn't really want him to die, beginning to admit that she was wrong about what she did… but she doesn't exactly know how to fix it.

I would also like to wish the best of luck to anybody in New Orleans, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama who got hit by Katrina. Hope everybody you know is okay.

_Exhausted, Hermione slumped back down, just in time to see Harry, bless the boy-who-lived, dragging Madam L though the haze of dancers. The onlookers' voices had begun to swim in her ears like some distant buzzing through a seashell, and her fuming, frenetic vision began to cloud, not with red, but with a dull yellow tinge that was swiftly followed by a fuzzy black. _

_And then the fingers of mist completely encircled her exhausted line of sight, and Hermione collapsed in a heap beside the already-unconscious Tom Riddle._

**Chapter 25: Home Again**

Thursday, December 23, 1944

12:41 A.M.

The bloody magnolias weren't blossoming.

"Hermione, it's two minutes to midnight! Do something!" Phyllis Hardiman wailed plaintively, coming up behind the Head Girl, the ash blond Gryffindor's gray dress robe flowing to a stop as she stared forlornly at the thin, three-foot long elegant —and very shut— silver buds of the particular moonlight magnolia in front of them near the Great Hall Entrance. "The only reason we moved the dance _back_ so late was so everyone could see them open!"

"I realize that, Phyll; does it _look_ like I'm just sitting around?" Hermione ground out through gritted teeth, her hands currently gripping the edges of the buds of the considerable-sized potted plant. Of course the big finale would have to go wrong…nothing ever did go quite without a hitch in this world…

"Have a holly, jolly Christmas…" Nearly Headless Nick crooned with a little twist back up on stage, a sadistic smile spreading across his face as the grandfather clock began to ring, signaling the end of the Holiday Soiree and the end of his charmed singing. "It's the _best_ time of the year…"

_Yeah, B, I used to think that way, too, _Hermione sardonically thought to Burl Ives, song's original singer, her eyes shooting daggers down what she could pry open of the inside of the tightly closed buds.

Letting out a determined little noise under her breath, Hermione planted her stilettoed feet onto the dance floor and attempted to heave the petals apart. "Come _on, _blast it," she grunted, her voice strained, wrestling against the closed buds. _God, for a delicate looking thing, the little bugger's strong!_ "Open… up…_Eeep!"_

Both girl and flower rolled and toppled backward onto the ground, Hermione's body letting out a little jerk, her mouth dropping in surprise to find herself free-falling, and both quickly collided with the hard, cold floor with a loud _THUD!_

"Ow," she muttered bleakly.

For at least a half minute, Hermione lay there in a kind of dazed stupor, her back aching from the plummet, her mouth still open in shock. Finally, she cautiously opened her eyes… and found herself staring straight up at the knots in the unmistakable, drab white ceiling of the Hospital Wing. _The moonlight magnolias! Did they open?_

_Ah, well… who cared about some stupid plant, really?_

Vigorously, she shook her head and floundered around for the sheets dangling off the edge of the bed to her left, grabbing them, unsteadily pulling herself to her feet as if she were scaling a wall. The second she straightened up, a wave of dizziness swept over her, and she hastily plopped back down on top of the rumpled covers, gripping the edge of the bed, waiting for the spell to pass.

It did, and blinking rapidly, clearing her wobbly head, yawning, she keenly studied her dark surroundings. A burst of moonlight through the uppermost edge of the windows behind revealed the stark austerity of the bottom half of the Infirmary, with which she had become far too familiar for her liking, the starch white beds lined like little soldiers.

Opening her eyes wider, urging them to more quickly adjust to the smothering patches of darkness, Hermione yawned again, and the faint, sweet aroma of homemade pumpkin bread and caramel-swirled chocolate suddenly wafted into her attention first, as her other four senses seemed to be a bit ahead of her sight tonight.

A thin sliver of moonlight had barely missed her bed, but the clear, otherworldly nighttime light swept directly across her bedside table. On it, Hermione could clearly see far too many slices of her favorite sweet bread and chocolates for a normal person to eat precariously loaded down on a plate.

_Ah-ha! Food!_ She felt like she had turned into some uncivilized cavewoman as her ravenous stomach hi-jacked control of her mind and caused it to steadily chant, _Hungry, **food,** hungry, **food,** hungry, **food,** hungry, **food...**_

And a note.

Mentally beating back her stomach, Hermione reached over and picked up the thin slip of parchment, jaggedly ripped on one edge as it it had been tore haphazardly out of a notebook, and she leaned out of the darkness around her bed to hold it under the moonlight, her eyes skimming over Harry's messy scrawl.

'_Mione-_

_Kept watch here since last night and now Lamberdeau is kicking us out at five to ten, says you need your sleep. But you've been sleeping all bloody day! Makes no sense at all to me. Can you believe it, you'd think that with just us and ten other students staying for the holidays they'd lift curfew, but of course they haven't. Suppose it's back to under the Invisibility Cloak to get around properly after hours. Times like these remind us of how we technically should be out of school for good right now, Ron wants me to tell you. Anyway, if you wake up before we come to see you straightaway tomorrow morning, we thought the food would help a touch. Gin put a Freshener Charm on it so it won't spoil. 'Til then, all our luv-_

_-Harry… and everyone else who made me do the writing'_

_I love my friends,_ Hermione thought happily.A contented grin slipping onto her face, she replaced the note and hawkishly eyed the dessert platter, her stomach progressing to the obnoxiously growling stage, sounding like a small freight train when compared to the silent Infirmary.

_Did **not** just do that…._ Mildly mortified, she glanced around the Wing sheepishly, hoping that the noise hadn't woken up any other sickbed occupants, her eyes scanning the shadowy room. As far as she could detect, a faint light glowed at the thin slit between the bottom of Madam L's closed office door and the floor, but other than that, the Hospital Wing was completely deserted.

Until her eyes landed on the very farthest bed.

Tom Riddle.

Hermione's breath froze; she actually felt her heart stop beating in her chest before it resumed its dance and began to thud heavily, faster and faster.

_Dear God._

All desire to eat anything at all completely flew from her mind as if it had never even been there at all, and, just as swiftly, the horror of the last five minutes of Tuesday night rushed back to her, every single awful second of it, from the moment the Heir of Slytherin passed out to the moment that she must have…and, above all, Draco's insensitive, cutting words ran through her mind like a nails across a chalkboard in her ears,

_Congratulations, Nef, you just personally stamped the death sentence on Lord Voldemort's exit papers…._

When Tom had collapsed, even when she had been so close to him, even when his condition had seemed stable enough… Hermione had instantly jumped to a faint conclusion of why, but her mind had been too panicked to dwell on it for more than a split second.

Pulling her legs up onto her bed and brought her knees up to her chest, hugging them, greatly relieved that someone—preferably Madam L—had changed her out of Lavender's scandalous dress robes and into a pair of her comfortable pajama pants and top, and bit her bottom lip lightly, contemplatively. If what she thought had happened was true, if Tom Riddle had indeed fallen in love with her last night…

Then the curse had passed the point of no return. It was irreversible. He loved her. _Her! _A boy—no, a _man_, really, a man who had the potential to be one of the most powerful Dark Lords the past five hundred years had ever known… had thrown away that power for the brief chance to love instead.

And what was she giving him in return? Death!

A wave of guilt— heavy, heart wrenching guilt— swept through all of Hermione's nerves like a painful, unforgiving firestorm, sending a notion of impending dread… and loss… spiraling into her reality, soon accompanied by an equally strong, disillusioned, but blissful numbness.

Draco had been right, before the Soiree, when he had told her that people had been counting on her to succeed last night, Hermione admitted reluctantly. It was true: all of their planning, all of their sacrifices, all of their time traveling risks… it really _had_ all come down to the Holiday Soiree.

Dumbledore's crazy, last ditch plan had actually succeeded.

And she… she had avenged her parents, her classmates, everyone she had loved. Hell, she had even avenged the French chateau that she had so despised, yet, at the same time, so treasured…burned down three years earlier by Voldemort's Continental forces as they swept down on Paris from the Transylvanian mountains, destroying everything in their path.

She had done it.

_Congratulations to me,_ she thought dully, sending another glance over at the farthest bed… knowing, without a doubt, that she had set into motion a series of inalterable events that she could never, ever take back…

Even if she was beginning to wish she could be able to.

Her previous inspiration — whether becoming Tom's friend would be a way to prevent his drastic plunge to the dark side— really would have no impact whatsoever on his likelihood to become Lord Voldemort, Hermione suddenly realized. And even if she had…

Tom Riddle was still going to die.

She couldn't deal with this anymore, or she'd go crazy beating herself up. Savagely ripping back her covers, furious at the fates that had most likely found all of this a sick, amusing joke from their detached viewing screen in the heavens, Hermione tested her balance and teetered out of bed. Reaching up with one hand, cradling her faintly throbbing head as she balanced on the bedposts with her other, she absently noticed her hair still up in the up-do… minus a great deal of messy wisps.

Not one who had ever taken much concern toward her appearance for the sake of others, Hermione now found her mind mother-henishly nagging in an irritably singsong tone_, I must look like **cra-ap…** And I don't know where my wand is to **fix** it… Not that I would know many spells about that in the **first** place—_

_CrEEEEk. _

A tiny, almost inaudible shuffle against the floor to her right, and Hermione froze, sharply sucking in an intake of air, feeling every hair along the back of her neck stand on edge.

Adrenaline surging through her veins, her eyes narrowed, and she squinted suspiciously into the shadows among the row of beds next to her, her eyes acutely scanning the patches of thick darkness, holding her breath for a good minute, listening for something, _anything_ that would be a dead giveaway to… whatever it had been.

She detected nothing.

_Whew. False alarm._

Letting out the deep breath, Hermione urged her pounding heart to slow, fanning her burning, flushed cheeks. Too many years of rule-breaking, late-night sneaking with Harry and Ron —and sometimes without them, she hated to admit— and common sense wartime awareness every time she had stepped out of her room for the past three years had left her a little too jumpy for random noises, for those 'it's just the building settling,' etc., etc.

_Caaallllm yourself down. Come on now._

Taking the last few steps to Tom's hospital bed, repeating determinedly,_ It was nothing, it was nothing, _she easily found her usual chair in the bright moonlight that was shining through the window above the Hospital beds directly to her right. As quietly as she could, she pulled the rest of that damn, godforsaken stiff-backed wooden chair toward the side of the Heir of Slytherin's semi-permanent residence and stiffly sat down, still partly afraid that _someone,_ somewhere, was watching her _—_

_Good** Merlin,** Hermione, get a grip! It's not like we're at **war** now, like there're **spies** running around!_

Sighing, her face still slightly hot from the fight-or-flight instinct that had gripped her seconds before, she settled in the chair as much as was humanly possible, rested her chin on her hand, and gazed down at Tom Riddle's mature, sleeping face, dimly illuminated by the glow of the moon.

Hermione wasn't going to deny it: There was a part of her mind—a _sensible_ part, her rational side informed her— telling her that she should have been smiling, dancing, celebrating the fact that she had saved the future; something she was certain that Harry, Ginny, Draco, Ron, and Lavender were doing, even at this very moment.

But Hermione could only close her eyes and shake her head, unable —or afraid— to place the strongest emotion within her burdened thoughts.

All she knew was that, in destroying the monster… she had also destroyed the man. And there really _had_ been a man in Lord Voldemort, she had come to discover; he wasn't just an evil shell that been conniving since birth on how to kill every muggle and muggleborn that he laid eyes on and on the ultimate plan to take over the world.

He was human.

Yes, he could become furious to the point of dangerousness; yes, he could feel the coldest of bitterness; yes, he occasionally had a tendency to mood swing when something unanticipated came up; yes, he had a raw power in him that he could and had used to harm; yes, he could hate with a passion…

But he could suffer as well, could tolerate pain with the best of them; could feel abandoned, alone, let down, and shut out by humanity to such an extent that Lord Voldemort would go on to completely lose what humanity Tom still had; could use magic in a good way, to heal, if the need arose; could feel an almost innocent happiness at receiving something as simple as a hastily scrawled out get-well card and falling-apart book…

And, now, he could also love.

Oh, yes, Tom Riddle was very, very much human. And had the world given him half a chance the first time around, he might have stayed that way.

_One look at you, Nef, one **tiny little glimpse,** and he's done for—_

"Shut _up,_ Draco!" Hermione growled fiercely, forcing the blond's voice, his smirking face from her mind, squeezing her eyes shut and willing it all to go away, willing her reality to vanish into the darkness of the Hospital Wing. This was all some kind of horrible nightmare, that's all it was.

Soon, she would wake up and discover that it all been a dream: She hadn't really gone back to 1944, the boy who had grown up to kill her parents hadn't really fallen in love with her, nor was he heading toward the brink of death, and she…she hadn't really fallen in love with him, either.

_Had she?_

"Nefertari?"

Hermione bit back a shriek and nearly fell off the chair, her senses still on edge, even the tired voice taking her by surprise when it interrupted her jumble of conflicted thoughts. "God, don't _do_ that!" she exclaimed softly, her eyes clearing, and she blinked and refocused on the Heir of Slytherin, thankful that the moon had bathed that entire end of the Hospital Wing in bright moonlight. "Hey, Tom."

The confusion on Tom's face was evident, a furrowed brow and a pair of exhausted but intelligent, not-quite-awake gray eyes studying her from under a mess of tousled dark hair that had once been neat and on top of a fluffy white pillow, and the fatigue in his speech was real, slowing the pace of his speaking to a mere crawl. "What… what are you doing here?"

"Ummm…" Hermione smiled wryly, inadvertently rubbing her bruised elbow on which she had probably fallen the night of the Soiree… or seconds ago after the stupid magnolia dream, one of the two. "I suppose you could say I had a bit of a spill last night as well."

The right side of his face disappeared into the pillow as he turned his head so that he could see her fully, clearly, now staring at her intently. "You… didn't have a… another vision… did you?" he asked, his voice so faint it was hardly more than a whisper.

Hermione mentally groaned. Oh, but of course he'd be concerned about _that._ Well, she supposed she couldn't blame him, really. "No, I think it was more along the lines of a cumulative lack of sleep and a rather traumatic evening to begin with," she said, yawning at the end of her statement as if to attest to these faces, and smiled tiredly at him. "How are you?"

Tom gave an almost undetectable shrug of his shoulders. "Better than I have been, at least." Weakly, he slid his arms up to his side, planted them into the soft mattress, and, leaning on his hands for support, pushed himself up to a sitting position, his back poised with a kind of classic grace despite the fact that he was sitting in a bed in the Hospital Wing. As was in her case, he was, as far as Hermione could see, only sporting a partially unbuttoned Oxford shirt, and, she assumed, a pair uniform pants, rather than what he had been wearing at the Soiree.

His voice, though, seemed to be fading even more with each word as he added with some amount of difficulty, "Tired, though... so… so _tired…"_

Almost in slow motion, the Slytherin's right arm gave out from under him, and he collapsed lopsidedly back into the bed, his eyes closing. It wasn't that he appeared to be in pain, as he had typically been these past few months …but, rather, in an extreme, extreme state of exhaustion.

'_The moment the Afflicted's feelings of affection turn to those of pure, sincere, **true** love, the curse moves into the second stage. The Irreversible stage. The preliminary pain stops, and the curse instead turns to the Afflicted's energy supply, gradually leaving him weaker and weaker…_ _until, eventually… the Afflicted dies.'_

When she had first found out about the _Anima_ _Adflictatio_ in the Room of Requirements less than a month and a half ago - Had it really only been that long? - when Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms had described the energy-sucking part of the curse, Hermione had never even imagined what a kind of "energy sucking" form of magic actually meant, having never really seen anyone else cursed with something like that before.

Only now, right now, could Hermione begin to accurately grasp the serious, serious implications of the words that had described the second phase of the curse.

"Here, just stay down," she murmured without even hesitating to think, reaching out and lightly placing a hand on his chest. The moment he detected the unexpected contact of her hand, he stiffened rather quickly, but he didn't say a word in protest, only allowed her to gently press his still-raised left shoulder flat against the sheets. "It won't bother me, I promise."

Tom's eyes narrowed just slightly, almost inquisitively, as if he couldn't quite figure out what to make of her actions. Then, out of absolutely nowhere, he said quietly, "Nefertari, I'm…"

Pausing, he ran his tongue roughly over his lips, absently drawing the bed sheets up toward the middle of his stomach with a deep sigh, and stared up at the ceiling as Hermione glanced at him curiously, wondering what it was he wanted to say that was giving him so much trouble. Finally, the phrase coming so quietly she hardly caught it, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

Hermione almost fell out of her chair for the second time in ten minutes. Almost immediately, her eyebrows _shot_ up. _"You're_ sorry?" she echoed incredulously, and carefully, silently edged the chair so close to his bed that she had to tuck her legs under her so they didn't collide with the bed's hard metal frame, unable to hear his words due to the faintness of his voice, even in the nighttime silence of the Hospital Wing. "Why?"

The Heir of Slytherin's weary eyes gazed penetratingly into hers through his drooping eyelids, and now, without a doubt, but with a considerable amount of disbelief…. Hermione was certain that she saw a significantly rueful gleam somewhere in those stormy gray pools.

"You worked… so hard to make last night perfect…" the nearly nonexistent strength of his voice sounded as if each syllable was a struggle to get out, his sentences emerging as jaggedly put together, "and… it was… for everyone… everyone but…_ you."_

Finally seeming to give in to his own exhaustion, Tom resignedly allowed his eyelids to close, his voice evaporating to a mere, breathless undertone. "I suppose that I'm… partly at fault…for that, if… if I wouldn't have insisted on... on coming…"

Immediately, Hermione was assaulted by a torrent of emotions, and, systematically, tried to throw each one away from her. The statement was so atypical of Tom Riddle, so completely unlike anything he had ever done, and Hermione knew that he didn't relished admitting his faults… but, yet, he had sucked it all up so he could apologize to her.

Despite her valiant effort, she felt, to her ultimate horror, her eyes begin to burn, tear up. Quickly, without wasting more than a second, she turned her head toward the shadows to her right, desperately biting the top of her knuckle to stop her suddenly unstable chin, thanking the gods that Tom's eyes were shut as she fought back the urge to curl up into a little, dark, deserted corner of the Hospital Wing and start sobbing like the miserable little wretch she was.

"It's... really not your fault at all," she finally managed to murmur faintly.

The man they had come back fifty years in time to stop from becoming a Dark Lord was acting like a normal, considerate human being. He was being more civil than Draco had been the night before.

_Draco._

In the blink of an eye, the tears dried at their source, and they were replaced with a brooding gleam as Hermione inadvertently narrowed her eyes, going over as much detail as she could recall of the Holiday Soiree. What on earth had gotten into him last night? For a moment, for just a second, it had seemed as if Draco du Luc had turned back into the old Malfoy, the _evil_ Malfoy that had vanished two and a half years ago…

_Stupid, that's an utterly **ridiculous** idea,_ some rational side of her mind scoffed irately. No, it had clearly been Draco who had been the most sensible of the two of them the day of the Soiree, it was _he_ who had realized that, once Tom Riddle had fallen in love, they had successfully completed the mission…

Hermione supposed he had had a right to… to gloat as he had, and oh yes, he had definitely been gloating— if anything, over the fact that he had kept his mind to the task that she, he, Harry, Ginny, Lavender, and Ron had been sent out to accomplish in the first place, whilst _she_ had waltzed right off and had… well, Merlin knows _what_ she had done…

"Got… a bit on… on your mind… Nefertari," Tom asked— no, stated in a broken, clear but faint voice, bringing her mind back to center, his scarily intuitive perceptiveness never ceasing to amaze her.

"Yeah…" Hermione muttered distractedly, then, so she wouldn't sound like she was brushing him off, added, "Just random thoughts, really." As the brunette smiled at him halfheartedly, more of Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms materialized in the back of her mind:

'_The greater the strength of the Secondary's concern for the Afflicted, the longer the Afflicted will be able to survive. And, although the curse will steadily drain the Afflicted's energy, the secondary can restore a portion of that energy by simply making physical contact with the Afflicted…'_

So, all she really had to do was touch him to bring him back…

A more genuine smile tugging at her lips, Hermione found Tom's right hand twisted amongst the crisp white sheets of the Hospital bed and curled her fingers around his, becoming more than a little concerned when his hand remained eerily cold and limp in hers. Determinedly hanging on anyway, she figured she at least owed him something in return for the difficult—for him, at least—speech that he had just tried so hard to complete for her sake.

"Tom, don't apologize to me," she said gently, the smile still on her lips, almost exasperated at the memories. _"I'm_ glad you came. I mean, granted, you did give me quite a bit of a scare near the end, but… Tom, that last song …" Closing her eyes, reliving the feeling in her mind, she whispered earnestly, "Dancing with you then was like… like moving without thinking. Like _floating,_ Tom. D'you know how rare it is, to find something like that?"

When he said nothing, Hermione let out an annoyed breath of air, not knowing what he wanted to hear, and threw her hands into the air. "I mean, I don't know, maybe I've just gone completely mad, but didn't _you_ have a good time?"

Opening her eyes, she glanced back down the dark-haired Slytherin and found his eyes reopened now too, gazing at her face steadily, like they had been doing so for several seconds. "I don't know if I'd call passing out on the ground and nearly cracking my head open a good time, but, you know, Nefertari…" He paused for breath, his voice considerably stronger than it had been previously, an almost amused edge to it. "I think I really did. "

And Hermione thought she saw the faintest ghost of a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.

Trying to hold back another smile of her own, Hermione gazed without much self-consciousness into Tom's mesmerizing gray eyes. His hand had warmed slightly, had finally regained enough of its strength to gently squeeze her hand, his slender fingers long enough to be nearly double the length of her own. It was then that a little feeling took root in the pit of her stomach, nothing like the knots of stress that normally formed there, but… one that was warm.

Comforting.

Content, safe, happy, and every other word that described what Hermione had felt during the best moments of her life… All those things, and more, she felt right then, felt them spread through every inch of her body, every vein and every pore until every single nerve from the tip of her fingers, curled in his, to her bare feet tucked under her knees felt electrified, rejuvenated…

She hadn't felt this alive since the day before her parents died.

And then, she had to know. She just… she _had_ to. She would never be at peace with herself again until she did.

Impulsively, she burst out in as quiet a voice as the Hospital Wing warranted, "Do you regret it, then? Coming last night?"

It was a loaded question. On the surface, it was a simple yes or no. _Below_ the surface, though, it held _so_ much more meaning. Hermione wasn't just asking if he regretted the Holiday Soiree. Oh, no.

_She_ was asking if he regretted getting into a situation that caused him to fall in love with her. That caused him to give up every single moment of his lifelong, vastly incredible potential, for the fleeting time that he would have to simply… love her. Even when he didn't, couldn't know whether she loved him back or not, because she didn't quite know herself.

But _Tom_ didn't know that she knew all that, thank Merlin.

Another tiny shiver tingled down Hermione's spine as Tom absently began to stroke the back of her hand with his thumb, his eyes becoming pensive. Thoughtful. Finally, he shook his head slightly, causing some flyaway locks of dark hair to fall into his face, which he irritatedly swept to one side with his free hand, and he murmured, very softly, "No."

If Hermione's stomach had jumped to her throat before, then the bottom definitely fell out of it now. All thoughts of him being the Dark Lord aside, _no_ guy she had known had _ever_ so much as… Well, this entire situation, _everything_… it was all just so unbelievable!

"You mean, you don't regret it _at all?"_ she asked dumbly, sticking her foot in her mouth before she could stop herself. _You should've just accepted his answer, idiot! _There was no backing out now, though, and she reiterated, nearly wincing at the sound of the words,"None of it?"

"I'm still talking about last night, Nefertari." Tom managed to roll to one side while still dangling his right hand off the edge of the bed, his fingers still interlaced with hers, tangling the Hospital bed sheets round with him even more as he did so, wrapping his left arm across his chest and comfortably sliding his hand between the pillow and his right cheek, his surprisingly amused gray-blue eyes studying her face calculatingly as he continued shrewdly, "What are _you_ talking about?"

"I'm talking about last night, too," Hermione instantly, defensively replied. _What does he think I'm talking about?_ "And my question still stands."

"And my answer's still the same, Nefertari," Tom drawled coolly, his voice strengthening even more the longer she held on to his hand. "I don't regret it. None of it."

A roguish little smirk jumped to his ashen face — more proof that his energy must have been returning in immense waves — and he added, "Except for the fact that I didn't get to have a go at that absurdly enormous food table; Nefertari, do you realize, it took me eight bloody hours to draw up the entire catering list in simple language for the house elves to follow, and I didn't even get the chance to try one tiny cranberry cream crumpet?"

He was making light of the situation, Hermione knew, and she wasn't sure whether to laugh at that idea, or cry because, well… because he _hadn't_ regretted falling in love with her. Her stomach, though, made the decision for her when it growled in agreement with his last words, and she couldn't help but grin readily at the truth in them. Her eyes glinting mischievously, she asked, "In that case, how may I assist you? Are you looking for a happy night? Or a slightly cheery night?"

He scowled and lightly pushed her hand in the direction of the Hospital Wing door. "Go away, Nefertari, your undying optimism sickens me."

Hermione shook her head in mock exasperation, wrinkling her nose at the exaggeratedly Scrooge-ish Slytherin. "Hey, at least I've _got_ optimism, Mr. I-Don't-Do-Formalities." And taking that same hand, she whacked him soundly on his side with it.

He instinctively jerked backward, yelping, _"Ow!_" A priceless, genuinely shocked expression at the idea that Hermione would dare commit such an act of violence against him exploded in his gray eyes, and an impish grin instantly jumped to Hermione's face as he hissed, "What the devil was that for?"

He obviously had not been warned to beware of girls who had boys as best friends, Hermione thought as she jabbed a slender finger at him. "Don't you mess with my optimism."

"You take a swipe at me like that again, and I'll mess with your optimism whenever I bloody well please," he grumbled, and a smirk slid back onto his profile. "And I can be an optimist, too, you know." Was that… _amusement_ Hermione detected in his voice? "For example, I'm quite optimistic that they'll have leftovers down in the kitchens for weeks, and I don't plan on leaving any of them behind for you people in the Great Hall to eat."

"'You people in the Great Hall'… my _God,_ do I feel stereotyped…" Hermione groaned, and Tom's smirk widened as she shook her head at him and laughed. "Anyway, that's not optimism, that's a fact—Waaaait a second!"

His last statement reminded her, and her eyes lit up energetically, the slight hungry edge now returning full force. Snapping her fingers, she leapt to her feet without any explanation to Tom's questioning gaze and nearly passed out from the floor from the rush of blood away from her head. _"Whoa…"_

Woozily, she regained her balance and untangled her hand form Tom's, treading her way back to her own sickbed. Sweeping up the loaded platter of bread and chocolate, she carefully balanced it on one hand as she made her way back to Tom's bed and, lowering her voice to avoid discovery by Madam L, she announced dramatically, "Dessert is served."

"Nefertari. You mean to tell me that that has been just sitting by your bed all this time." Tom eyes incredulously moved between her and the food plate as she neared, and, raising his voice in a rather irritated tone, he sardonically asked, "And you've been with me for… _how_ long now? Twenty minutes?"

As she reluctantly sat back down in the hard chair, her tailbone screaming in protest, all while precariously balancing the plate, a furtive glance over her shoulder at Madam L's door reassured her that she was still safe… for now. Under her breath, she retorted, "Its called patience."

When the beginnings of a smirk broke out on Tom's face at that, she narrowed her eyes and shot him a dirty look. "And you know what, I'll thank you to keep it down.You know she'll murder us if she finds us out of bed!"

"You mean, _I_ know she'll murder _you_ if she finds _you_ out of bed," Tom corrected in an amused tone, pushing himself back up again, this time a bit more confidently. Reaching under his pillow for his wand, he pointed it at the tiny slit of light under the door clear across the Infirmary and, in a tone that strangely reminded Hermione of one she had recently used on Ron, muttered, "Honestly, Nefertari, it's called a Silencing Charm for a reason."

A slim violet jet of light hit the wooden door, and, for the first time that night, he raised his voice to normal volume level, that little smirk still playing on his lips as he nodded at the pumpkin bread and chocolate. "You know, they say eating that much sugar alone isn't good for you."

Ah-ha. So he wanted to be sneaky about it, did he? A teasing smile venturing across her face, Hermione tucked a thick curl of hair that had fallen from her up-do behind her ear and held the platter of sweets up over hear head. "You know, _Riddle,_ I don't really think _you're_ in any position to be making demands."

He raised his eyebrows unaffectedly. "You _know,_ Nefertari, I don't really think _you've_ got a wand on you at the moment."

_Damn._

"Alright, you win this time," Hermione grumbled. Carefully shifting her weight, she scraped the chair closer to his bed and eased the holiday red and green plate onto the sheets, shamelessly digging under the chocolates for a slice of pumpkin bread before pushing it toward him. "Here, take your spoils."

Without an ounce of hesitation, he grabbed a chocolate caramel off its place leaning against the little stack of pumpkin bread slices and said conversationally, "I take it you've just woke up, then."

"Uh-huh. You?"

"No. I did this afternoon, once, but Lamberdeau gave me a sleeping potion just as soon. I did see all your little friends swarming around the second or so I was awake, but I couldn't figure out why at the time." He smirked again, polishing off another chocolate and moving on to a slice of pumpkin bread before Hermione had even finished her first. "You must sleep like the dead, what with the racket they were making."

"God, Merlin knows I need to," Hermione said with a sigh and smiled distantly. Tiredly, she covered her mouth, every muscle in her face stretching to their limits as she yawned hugely before trying one of the chocolates. Pausing, savoring the divine mixture of creamy chocolate and sweet caramel that exploded in her mouth, Hermione didn't bother to attempt to fill the silence that proceed to envelop the Hospital Wing…

It wasn't really an uncomfortable one; they never were with him anymore.

Surprisingly, it was Tom who spoke first, and, lowering his unfinished slice of pumpkin bread to the sheets over his lap, he asked, quite abruptly, "Do you miss them?" When she regarded him blankly, he added, "Your parents."

_My **parents?**_ The utter unexpectedness of it struck Hermione, so much so that her jaw froze mid-chew. It was, by far, the most random question Tom Riddle had ever asked her, _ever…_ And it was a question that no one had really ever asked her before. She could tell that his curious gaze was waiting for her answer, though, so she took a deep breath and sighed. "I do… all the time."

Wordlessly, Tom studied her keenly, his eyebrows rising just slightly, almost attentively. Two months ago, Hermione would never have predicted the Heir of Slytherin's open, almost inviting expression would actually cause her to _want_ to keep talking… or that his expression could even _be_ open, inviting, and attentive.

Biting her tongue as she indecisively wavered for a moment, Hermione finally added, a bit roughly, "And it's been more difficult than it should be, really, because people positively tiptoe around the subject. They have ever since it happened. Harry's parents—"

Hermione paused abruptly, wondering whether it was really her place to tell Tom what was in reality Harry's, but then figured it wouldn't hurt matters much if she did. "What happened to mine happened to them—much longer ago, though— so just knowing that he's been through sort of the same thing has been a bit of a relief… but even he doesn't like to talk about that sort of thing. And…" Her voice cracked, and, to her mortification, she felt a tiny flush burn up the back of her neck. "And it's hard, getting over them like that."

As soon as she trailed off, a question flickered in Tom's conscientious gray eyes. She could tell that he was vacillating, trying to decide whether to speak or not, so she held back any other response she might have given and waited… until he made up his mind and asked quietly, "What were they like?"

Hermione's thin eyebrow shot up. "Who, my parents?"

He nodded.

"What were my parents like…" Hermione mused, once again, honestly never recalling a time when she had been asked that question before, and asked rhetorically, "How do you answer a question like that?"

Closing her eyes, resting her chin on her fist meditatively, the brunette began to systematically shuffle though the countless memories she had of her family, smiling as she encountered ones that she was particularly fond of…

Like her father accidentally shaving off half his moustache, walking around in public for two days without noticing, finally finding out when—bless his good-natured soul—a ten year old Hermione solemnly informed him that he strongly resembled a man she had just learned about in class, who was the leader of something called the Not Zees…

But, yet, he had always been there for her when she had needed someone to talk to, when she was nervous, or excited, or scared…how he always seemed to know what to do, had a perfect little quip or piece of ridiculously cliché but appropriate advice that helped show her the right way without directly coming out and telling her the answer, like 'Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body' when she felt overwhelmed with schoolwork and 'If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun' when she got too uptight…

Well, actually, that one fit her mum a bit more, like when Hermione would take early morning runs with her mother through the city streets during the first four summers she was home from school, together braving the blowing wind, the blazing sun, the pouring rain, whatever mother nature threw at them, tearing through the deepest puddles…

And, of course, the inevitable arguments that arose each year upon the approach of Hermione's birthday, which, she was ashamed to admit, she had rather relished eavesdropping on… Hearing what they were planning to do… Where they each wanted to take her… Occasionally siding with either her father or her mother, giving the other a bit of a cold shoulder until they relented…

"Merlin, Nefertari, they spoiled you right and proper, didn't they?" Tom's voice interjected, sounding considerably amused as it interrupted her line of thought.

_**Whaaaat?** _Hermione's head jerked off her hand, her eyes blinking open. _How did he... ?_ Tom's head, his right ear, was cocked interestedly toward her, seemed to be listening very intently, to _something… Sweet Merlin!_

She gaped at him, openmouthed. "Please don't tell me I just said all that out loud," she said weakly, not especially wanting to know the answer.

Tom actually smiled—only slightly, just a little tug up at the corners of the lips—but the corner of eyes crinkled softly, genuinely. "There was nothing wrong with what you said." He paused, idly twirling his wand around his fingers, and then added, very quietly, "They sound like they were… good people, your parents."

In nearly the blink of an eye, the hot, burning sensation again sprang around the rims of her eyes, and the harrowing threat that tears would spill over became very real…but Hermione forced forward a smile, did it for her parents. "They were."

Oh _God, _at that moment she longed, longed with everything in her soul to tell Tom that her parents were Muggles; that yes, it was true, that so many Muggles existed who were good, _good_ people… But, tragically, he had never in his seventeen years encountered a single one of them.

"And being here only makes it worse, really," she continued quickly, forcefully shoving the renegade desire from her mind. At his sharp glance, she shrugged halfheartedly. "It's not that I don't like Hogwarts, but…" Trailing off, Hermione let out a tiny, frustrated puff of air.

_But I was sent here with the sole mission to destroy you! And I **did!** And… and, **God,** I don't want you gone. _

"But what?" Tom asked in that same soft, attentive tone, simultaneously going for his fourth slice of pumpkin bread.

Momentarily distracted, Hermione gawked at him as he ate. _Merlin, he could compete with **Ron!**_ And that was saying a lot _—_ although, from his slight frame, one would never be able to tell. And, from how thin he had been looking lately, Hermione was relieved to see that the fault didn't appear to lie with him himself—as it was now clear that he was more than willing to consume food—but, probably, with the curse.

Backing up to the subject at hand, Hermione mentally weighed her options. Well, she could be honest, without completely telling him everything…

"But I've been under this…. _pressure_… lately," Hermione began carefully, choosing her words conscientiously. She glanced over at him, shifting in the wooden chair to avoid cramping her back, pulling her pajama-clad legs up and sitting cross-legged on the seat. "You know when you have to do something, but you're not sure if you want to do it?"

_Not that it matters much now, anyway. It's already been done._

When the dark-haired Slytherin nodded, not interrupting, she continued tightly, "Well, that's a bit how I've felt, and Harry and Ron…Draco, Ginny, Lavender… They're my best friends, they really are, but sometimes they just…"

Hermione waved her hands slightly, her eyes distant as she searched for a way to continue, "They just don't understand it._ At all," _she added, rather darkly, under her breath. "But…" _Dare I say it?_ "But now, something's come up, something I didn't expect to happen, and I've been berating myself to death over it because I feel like I'm betraying them, somehow, with this new… idea I'm having."

Tom's eyebrows again lifted slightly. Thank Merlin he wasn't asking her to go into specifics. "Have you told them about this?"

"Well…" _Oh_ _God_ _no. They would throw me into St. Mungo's Ward for the Mentally Insane._ "That's the thing. Even if I _did_ tell them, they wouldn't even make the slightest attempt to understand, save investigating an avenue that would only clarify their already preconceived beliefs—and some of them are faulty, let me tell you."

Sighing heavily, the deep breath of air, flowing from her mouth in a rather loud _whooooosh,_ Hermione's stressed lungs seized the chance to relax. Staring at her hands, she finished softly, "And… I don't know what do to."

She had always wondered why Muggle psychiatrists made so much money, when all they really seemed to do was sit there and listen to people ramble about their problems, but as soon as those words parted from her lips, as ridiculously vague and general as they were… she felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her chest. It felt so... so _freeing,_ there really was no other word for it, to feel like she had truly, honestly been listened to, with no disruptions for Quiddich practices, or whatever else usually came up.

No wonder they said Tom Riddle could charm the teachers. As she had just found out, Tom, if he really wanted to do it, had a way of making people feel as if what they had to say was important. As if _they_ were important. She supposed that talent had helped him win over followers early on in his rise.

Tom, for his part, was studying her rather seriously, now that he had finished up the slice of pumpkin bread and another caramel chocolate truffle. "This thing that you've had to do," he began slowly, as if he was going over each line before he said it, "From what you said, it sounds like it's just _you_ who's been going at it. Not them. Doesn't that give you the right to make your own decisions about it without their influence?"

Hermione gave him a thin, watered-down smile, the sparkle in her eyes dimming just a bit. "If only it were that simple."

_Right. If only. _That alone was already too much to ask.

Wearily, Hermione shook her head, and her hand reached for another slice of pumpkin bread… to find that there was only one left. She split the soft, spongy cake down the center and offered him half, mildly surprised that the more than generous pile of desserts had gone so quickly. _She_ had only had one slice, herself… and two chocolates… so _he_ had to have had…

_"To-_om!" She exclaimed reprovingly as he readily accepted it, questioningly cocked his head at her outburst, and proceeded to down the sweet bread readily. "You ate a ton!"

"How very perceptive of you, Nefertari …" A little smirk spread across his face, studying her in a kind of amused fascination, and he added, "Now I think I'm going to go and sleep it off, if you don't mind…."

As if in testimony to this, his eyelids drooped a bit, the dark circles under his eyes becoming a bit more pronounced under the shifting light of the moon. Tiredly replacing his wand beneath his pillow —strangely enough, a habit that he and Harry seemed to share, Hermione noted—Tom gingerly eased himself back against the pillow, another flash of exhaustion flickering across his face.

It was the Curse; he was starting to enervate again, Hermione realized, and instantly, without even thinking… she took his hand. Even _she_ was rather shocked when she felt her fingers rest on him, surprised that she had done it so reflexively, and when Tom's muted gray eyes laded on her, a confused shimmer to them… she smiled, her shining eyes forming the words her mouth couldn't quite bring itself to say yet. _Let me, Tom. _

_Let me help you._

The Slytherin nodded stiffly then, though, like he understood that… somehow. As he did, Hermione's surveying gaze meandered down from his face and rapidly zeroed in on a shiny chain, a gleaming, absolutely _exquisite_ silver and green pendant poking haphazardly out from under his partly unbuttoned white oxford.

Leaning forward, her right hand still comfortably interlaced with his, Hermione reached out with her left. Tom's eyes sharply followed her motion, but he didn't seem to figure out what she was so intent on seeing… until she carefully pulled the left collar of his shirt a bit more open to the left and laid a slender finger on the pendant. "What _is_ this?"

Hermione noticed his shoulders tense, heard his breath audibly hitch, but he skillfully kept his expression completely clear and nonchalantly nodded at the Amulet of Eras hanging from her neck. "The same thing that you wear," he said calmly, shrugging as best as he could while lying in bed. "A family heirloom."

Her keen brown eyes having long become adjusted to the otherworldly light of the full moon, Hermione studied the twisting silver snake with two glittering diamonds for eyes and a smooth, emerald encrusted boarder. The chain screamed wealth, was dripping with it. No wonder Tom wore it beneath his shirt—hid it, really. There was no doubt in her mind that Calugala Malfoy, the insufferable, prattish snake that he was, would have launched a full-blown investigation of the simple 'half-blood's' background had he seen it…

... But, then again, if Malfoy was _working_ with Tom to manage the Death Eaters, wouldn't he have known that Tom was the Heir of Slytherin? And if that was the case, was the entire 'half-blood' game played just to keep up appearances?

_Ah, not this debate again._

Hermione mentally frowned at the unfathomable paradox and decided to keep up the innocent act. "But I thought you said your father was a Muggle," she said softly, tucking the chain back into his shirt, covering it back up with the collar, and patting the material lightly before pulling her hand away.

Tom seemed to visibly relax the moment the chain was out of sight. "He was." He scowled briefly, and then managed to suppress it… but that didn't mean there was any less acidity in his tone. "My mother's family was a bit extensive as far as magic goes, though… The pendant is the only physical proof of her—my—bloodline that I possess. But…but now…" his voice trailed off, the fatigue beginning to verbally make its presence known.

Hermione glanced over at him, and now it was her eyes urging _him_ to continue. "But now… what?"

Tom's worn-out yet aristocratic face twisted into an empty smile, a smile that really did nothing for him. "But now, my family's secrets will vanish with me. And no one… no one will ever know," he mumbled under his breath, more to himself than to her, Hermione realized. Although, she thought she had an idea of what he was referring to, and she wasn't especially inclined to think about it.

"Tom." Hermione's grip on his hand involuntarily tightened. "What do you mean?... _Tom?"_

The Slytherin's eyes were slowly closing, and Hermione could tell that, even though she was holding on to his hand, her effect wouldn't last forever, the portion of the energy that she had restored to him was leaving him far too quickly, and this conversation was still going to steadily drain him until he lost consciousness. Just thinking about it made Hermione's skin start to crawl, and she let out the most unnoticeable of shudders.

_His mother…__Merlin, what kind of woman would curse her **own child **with such a terrible end? _

Resolutely, though, Tom reopened his eyes and feebly pulled her closer, close enough that Hermione could still hear his fading whisper. "I… never told you the rest of the story, about my father…" —A word that should have held so much affection he rolled off his tongue like the dirtiest of curses— "did I?"

Hermione felt her stomach tighten uncertainly. "No, you didn't."

Her eyes widened, concerned, but she waited quite curiously and expectantly as he closed his gray eyes again but continue to speak. "The orphanage had overcrowded… they had sent me to his house for the time being, because they needed the room, and as far as they saw it… I had another place I could go if I had to," he began tonelessly, his voice becoming lower, more gravelly with sleep the longer he spoke.

"He… he hadn't anticipated my coming, quite obviously, as he was throwing a bit…a bit of a social gathering that night… Nothing but an excuse to spend time with his drinking mates and their wives, rather than with his own son, I'm sure…And after… after it was over, he saw me…. But…. he couldn't remember who I was… why I was there… thought I had broken in, so, of _course_… he had to stop me from buglaring his enormous house, his precious… treasured silver, his expensive furnishings…"

His worn out voice twisted bitterly, sarcastically, "I suppose he… he didn't _realize_ what he was doing, he was so _revoltingly_ intoxicated…"

Suddenly, his hand squeezed Hermione's with more energy than she would have thought him capable at that point, but she let him hang on and tiredly continue the narrative, "But, at the time, I honestly think he... he would have killed me, would have… woken up with nothing more than a hangover the next morning… figured out that it was actually his… his _son_ who was lying, stabbed to death, on the… on the den floor…and wouldn't have thought a thing of it…"

He was slipping away into unconsciousness quickly now, and progressing painfully slowly. "I couldn't use magic to help me, at the time… wasn't old enough for it to be legal… but I… I still got the knife away…and… he lunged. He fell… on me." Tom's voice had grown so faint, Hermione practically needed a pair of Fred and George's Extendable Ears to hear his final words before he drifted off.

"He fell… on… on the knife…and… and then it was… he was gone…."

Tom trailed off, his breaths becoming slow, even… but Hermione's mouth dropped open in complete horror.

When Dumbledore had told them of it, that Tom's father had died at Tom's hand, the deed had sounded so... so _wicked,_ the kind of thing that someone would whisper in hushed tones to the morning gossip, the sort of_: 'See him, over there? He killed his **own** **father. **Now, honestly think, what kind of person it takes to do such a horrid thing as that, can you **imagine…'**_

So it was true, then, that so much of Tom Riddle's life was to be one big misunderstanding.

Hermione bet that no one had ever really given him the chance to explain it fully and properly before. _My God, we've all condemned him for this, and it was really an accident! _

Gently, she tucked his hand back under the blanket, watched his chest rise and fall calmly, systematically, his right cheek buried in the pillow, his dark hair again mussed, spilling across his closed left eye. He would have been irritated with it like that. Hermione hesitated, and then, very lightly, leaned forward and affectionately brushed the soft, dark brown locks to the side, back off his face…

And a throbbing, painful ache began, this one not in her back…. or in her temples…. or in her elbow…

But in her heart.

_Mum… Dad… What have I done?_

**A/N:** **QUESTION:** As you might have noticed, Christmas is fast approaching, and I need to know… What should Hermione give Tom as a gift? Nothing extravagant, you know, just a little thing that she could easily pick up at Hogsmeade or something, but what do you think would be appropriate? (because I really don't know, and I'm not as creative as many of you are). Oh, and if you have a question about the pendant… no, its not the same one from the HBP, and he doesn't have the ring either, because, like I said, I wrote this before HBP.

Peace out,

Lady Moonglow


	26. Have You Ever Trusted

**A/N:** Thank you, one and all, for your lovely reviews. Really. You have no idea how much they make my day. You say you jump for joy when you see me update; well, I seriously jump for joy when I read your reviews! They're so introspective and just really thoughtful, guys. Thanks : - ) Remember, check the BIO for review responses and answers to questions! As always, they might not be up the first few hours after I post this, but after that feel free!

Thanks for all your Christmas present ideas as well! I know it's kind of a hard thing to think of now, anyway, because nobody's really got Christmas on their mind in the summertime, but each idea was really good, original, and it was difficult to pick one, so I combo-ed a few for Hermione's gift to him. It'll be in the next chapter.

Also, for those of you who think the Amulet only does weird stuff around Draco and Tom, remember that it glowed after Hermione was around Calugala Malfoy, too. Just a little FYI. And yes, Tom is going to find out that Hermione is from the future. And while Hermione holding his hand can help a little with the Curse, it's not like she'll be able to prolong his life forever. It's a temporary thing. Will he die? Do I like happen endings? Does that really answer your question?

_Gently, she tucked his hand back under the blanket, watched his chest rise and fall calmly, systematically, his right cheek buried in the pillow, his dark hair again mussed, spilling across his closed left eye. He would have been irritated with it. Hermione hesitated, and then, very lightly, leaned forward and affectionately brushed the soft, dark brown locks to the side, back off his face… And an throbbing, painful ache began, this one not in her back, or in her temples, or in her elbow… _

_But in her heart. _

_**Mum… Dad… What have I done?**_

**Chapter 26: Mixed Signals**

Saturday, December 25, 1944

6:50 P.M.

"On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to meeeee: _seven _swans a-swimming, _six_ geese a-laying—"

"Will somebody _shut her up?"_ Draco muttered aggravatedly, violently shaking his wand at Lavender's back as she pranced ahead of him, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and Ron down the second floor corridor toward the staircase down to the Great Hall and Christmas dinner with the professors.

Harry paused in his Quiddich discussion with Ginny and Ron and helplessly shrugged at Draco, his emerald eyes mutedly twinkling in amusement. "Out of my league, mate."

"—three French hens, _two-oo_ turtle doves—"

"You try getting her to stop without shooting a spell at her," Hermione ground out through gritted teeth, feeling the Amulet of Eras burn against her neck. It had taken to doing that randomly now, and, strangely enough, not just when she was with Tom Riddle.

"Just watch me." Draco expertly twirled his wand once around his fingers and took aim toward the fork in the hall that led down to the Slytherin Common Room, adding distractedly, "Give me a minute to summon my trusty beater's club—After all the work I've done with dear old grandfather, I've gotten good…"

Although she had grudgingly forgiven the blond Slytherin for his rather infuriating actions at the Holiday Soiree after he had pitifully begged her pardon that morning with a puppy-dog expression and a considerably expensive Christmas present, Hermione gasped, aghast, not sure if he was serious or not_. "Draco!"_

"Relax, Nef, I wasn't going to physically attack her," he drawled, and the smirk that spread across his face proved to be entirely _un_reassuring. The front of his sleek platinum hair that he had not slicked back fell casually into his face as leaned over to her ear and naughtily added, "Just whack a metal ball in the general direction of her head."

Hermione felt her mouth fell open before she could stop herself, and she laughed in disbelief, shaking her head as she lightly punched his shoulder. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I wouldn't, wouldn't I?" Draco muttered some dark nothings under his breath and rubbed his temples as if in great pain. Holding back a grin at his evident annoyance, Hermione unsympathetically crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows at him.

Draco caught the look. _"_Merlin, Nef, cut me some slack, alright?" he exploded good-naturedly, spreading his arms out imploringly and exasperatedly cocking his head at the Head Girl as if he couldn't quite understand why she didn't see things from his point of view. "She's been at it all bloody day!"

"Fiiiiiiive _GOLD_-DEN RINGS!" Lavender trilled shrilly, throwing her arms above her head and twirling dangerously down the Grand staircase's giant marble steps, her lacy green skirt billowing out like a parachute around her legs.

Yeah, so maybe Draco did have a point.

Hermione suddenly remembered the Self-Imploding Snapple Pops that Harry and Ginny, in the spirit of Fred and George, had conveniently given her for Christmas, with strict instructions to place in the path of any misbehaving first years. Only her friendship with the couple had kept her from completely trashing the prank candy the moment she tore away the wrapping paper.

She was beginning to seriously consider summoning one of the pops when Ron reported none-too unwillingly, "Well, mates, I'm off," energetically tearing himself from the group and quickly bounding to his girlfriend's side. Hermione hadn't the slightest idea what he had planned—

"And a partr—_Oooo!"_ Lavender squealed delightedly, giggling as Ron's mouth silenced her own.

—And _there_ was her answer. Hermione winced and wrinkled her nose at the kissing couple, her more conservative half chanting, _PDA, **scandalous, **PDA, **scandalous!…**_

"Oh, speaking of the days of Christmas," Draco snapped his fingers thoughtfully and whacked Harry on the arm. "Evans, I need to use your Invisibility Cloak."

Ginny glanced over at him interestedly. "Fancying a little midnight rendezvous, du Lac?"

"Yeah, with the only open shop in Hogsmeade." The blond Slytherin scowled. "I forgot to get C. Salvi a Christmas present, but as long as it's shiny and expensive, I think she'll forgive me if I call it a…" he paused dramatically and then continued with a flourish of his wand, "a _'New Year's surprise' _instead."

_PDA—Awwww, come on, Hermione grow up!_ she scolded herself. After all, she should have been more than used to the sight by now.

"Right, good luck with that one." Harry actually laughed as he nodded his messy, dark-haired head in consent. "And sure, you know where it is. Just bring it back in one piece, or you'll owe me half your bank account." Everyone, not just Ron and Lavender, but him, Ginny, and Draco too— They had all been so happy, so carefree like this ever since they had discovered that the Heir of Slytherin's curse had gone into Irreversible.

"_It's about bloody time he did!" Ron had said when she had told them, sounding almost impatient. "Now we can finally get on with our lives. Back to normal."_

"_Yeah, like living in the nineteen forties is a normal thing," Ginny added, rolling her eyes._

But Hermione, on the other hand, simply couldn't 'get on with her life,' as Ron had so easily put it, even if she desperately wished she could put this all behind her and Reductor into oblivion the day she had ever agreed to come back to 1944.

She couldn't because Tom Riddle _was_ a part of her life now, whether they even noticed it, or liked it, or didn't like it. Seeing him nearly every morning, and every night; exchanging spell ideas, or homework tricks, or even insults; trying to fathom the mystery behind his vast, stormy gray eyes, and even his odd little mood swings, his sometimes dangerous or sometimes unexpectedly charming personality quirks… it was just natural to her, now.

Another grin broke out on the Boy-Who-Lived's ruggedly handsome face as they passed the lip-locked Ron and Lavender on the stairs, and he winked at Hermione. "I never thought I would say this, but right now, I am _so_ glad those two are going out."

"I second that," Hermione muttered absently, again thankful that Ron had managed to put Lavender on pause despite the vivid display the two were making as she, Draco, Harry, and Ginny slowed their pace at the bottom of the stairs, deciding to wait for them.

"Oh,stuff it, you two," Ginny cut in darkly, lowering her voice as she furtively threw a glance over her shoulder at her snogging brother and his girlfriend while simultaneously pulling her luscious scarlet tresses into a ponytail. _"You_ won't have to have her as a sister-in-law."

Draco's eyes lit up evilly, and in a very Fleur-like voice he cooed, "Zat 'eeze right, dah-ling! You weell 'ave to keep us updated on ze drama, no?"

Absently straightening any bumps in the up-do, Ginny glared at Draco, her amused hazel eyes a cross between amusement and irritation. "Just so you know, _Drah-co dah-ling," _she cooed back just as mockingly, raising her eyebrows and mirroring in her smirk the devilish glint in his eyes, "You sounded _so_ very homosexual right there!"

" 'Oy, I knew it!" Like a bullet, Ron took his cue to rejoin the conversation and energetically jogged down the stairs, straightening his sweater but not bothering with his telltale, mussed mop of orange-red hair as he pulled a pleased–looking Lavender after him, all the while furiously waving his finger at an irritated-looking Draco. "Harry, what having I been telling you? All these years and nobody's _ever_ believed me—"

Lavender let out a screech of infectious laughter, and the perfectly horrified expression that exploded onto Draco's face was so priceless, the image of him not being quite on the straight and narrow so hilarious to Hermione's overly uptight mind that, she spluttered before she could help it, an unsuccessfully concealed laugh bursting out of nowhere.

Draco promptly glared at her. "Just so you know, Nef, you are _no_ bloody help at all."

Impishly, Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes twinkling, and mumbled, "Payback for the dance, Draco dear," through her palm. Draco gave her such a withering, disgruntled scowl that Hermione eyebrow's rose in hilarity and she let out another muffled laugh, pulling back from the group a step away from the impressive but familiar wooden doors of the Great Hall and the tantalizing smell of dinner wafting out from inside.

And froze.

Out of nowhere, something smooth, thin, and cool materialized in her hand. Hermione jolted in surprise, her arm stiffening as her fingers instinctively closed around the object. Discreetly, she warily glanced down and loosened her grip just slightly, revealing a small slip of familiar yellow parchment.

Good Merlin.

Her heart thudding, Hermione snapped her hand shut again.

It was from _him. _

But why had that suddenly made her so nervous?

Surreptitiously, Hermione glanced back at the others, but they hadn't seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, thank God; Ron was still going on and on about which way his former nemesis swung, and seemed to be enjoying himself quite a bit, while Draco had resorted to utilizing several ominous threats (including demanding darkly if, never mind his kissing ability, did Ron want to lose his child-making ability?).

Tuning the bickering group out again, Hermione mentally frowned. How had he gotten the note to appear directly into her hand if he hadn't been in the entrance hall to see where to aim it? Unless….

Unless he _was_ there, somewhere.

Not even bothering to figure out which advanced charm Tom had used to get the note to her, let alone what the note itself actually _said—_which, when Hermione thought back on it, probably would have been a smart thing to do—her sharp gaze began searching the shadowy foyer for the Heir of Slytherin himself—

And, off to her right nearly three-quarters of the way down the dimly lit, partially obscured corridor that led into the lesser-used wings of the castle, she thought she saw a single torchlight flicker briefly from some unseen wind.

Well, it _was_ her only lead.

"I'll be right back," Hermione hastily whispered in Ginny's ear, already planning her retreat.

The petite redhead nodded in a half-listening sort of way, her attention focused on the central conversation, and then she said loudly, "Oh, you haven't, have you? Hmmm, why don't you allow me to remind you of certain incident in your sixth year, where I seem to _vividly_ recall you, Blaise Zabini, and an empty train compartment—"

"Westlette, if you mean to imply anything from what you _think_ you saw, your bat-bogey hex will appear as mere _child's_ play when compared to what I will do to you."

Hermione rolled her eyes and quickly strode the few steps to the mouth of the flickering-torchlight corridor, peering down it just in time to see what could have been the edge of a long robe swish around the farthest bend. After glancing once more at her group as Harry, ever the peacemaker, impatiently shoved himself between Ginny and Draco and hauled open the Great Hall door, Hermione began to jog, then run down the twenty meter or so length of the hallway.

She just had a feeling, somehow, that it was him…

Although she wasn't quite sure why she felt such an inexplicable need to go after him.

A burst of speed, and Hermione reached out and swung herself around the edge of the first bend, her fingers briefly brushing the cold stone wall as she did so. And she stopped dead when she found who she was looking for. "Tom!"

Yes, there was no denying it was him; the unmistakable silhouette of the tall Heir of Slytherin froze halfway down this second hallway, the back of his dark head shining brightly from the light of the nearest torch. But… Hermione frowned as he reached out, his hand finding the rough wall and heavily using it as a support as he unsteadily turned around, his movements so drunken and jerky that, had he not been Tom Riddle, Hermione would have thought him to be utterly smashed.

Something was wrong. He hadn't been like this that morning.

"Nef… Nefertari?"

_Was that his voice?_ Hermione wondered, shocked the moment she heard it. Emerging as no more than a mere whisper, it still retained that soft yet hard, charismatic effect that it would always possess, but yet, it was so,_ so_ incredibly faint, and she could hardly catch his words when he muttered dully, "You weren't supposed to come after me right _now." _

Hermione's excitement at her intuition actually picking the right corridor _and_ catching up with Tom was rapidly fading to the horror that accompanied being unprepared for a situation over which she thought she had some amount of control. Had she missed some vital paragraph on the Anima curse? Once it reached the Irreversible stage, just _how_ fast did it move?

Hermione sighed. "For goodness sake, Tom, it's Christmas day." She began walking toward him despite his previously muttered comment, with him leaning against the wall like nothing more than an inert statue.

When she drew close enough to really get a good look at her dark-haired counterpart, though, she didn't even try to deny the strain of concern that nervously simmered at the back of her mind as she realized that, with his ashen skin tone and his shallow, nearly undetectable breathing, he very well _could_ have passed for a statue. Curiously, she stood on tiptoe and looked behind him. "Where are you going?"

Tom sluggishly glanced over his shoulder at the gaping gloom of the deserted entrance to a maze of hallways, then apathetically returned his gaze to her and shrugged listlessly.

Hermione frowned, his lack of response not a good sign. "Aren't you coming to dinner?"

As if she had tried to hex him, Tom's face darkened and his jaw clenched, a warning look springing to his eyes. "Nefertari, you… of all people—" Abruptly, he cut off, coughing harshly, tottering and nearly losing his balance as one of his hands jumped up to cover his mouth. After a moment, the energy in his voice practically drained to the point of nothingness, he faintly continued, "You know I don't… go in there—"

"I know, I _know_ you don't," Hermione interrupted pacifyingly, her worry over his condition only augmenting, but she was unable to keep a tinge of impatience from her tone as she repeated, "But Tom, it's _Christmas,"_ as if that alone was reason enough for him to break from his routine. She paused then, hovering over the burning question on her lips.

_If_ she did this, she was going to have a _lot_ of explaining to do to her friends, and she was going to have to come up with something _good…_ _Good Merlin, who **cares?**_ She thought rebelliously. _It's **my** life, not theirs!_

This was now. Tom was here. So was she. And, on a whim, she asked, "Will you come with me, to dinner? Just this once?"

Tom seemed taken aback at the suddenness of her request. "Nefertari…" He began slowly, drawing out her name as if saying it would automatically help him come up with a full response. A ghost of a smirk quirked at his mouth, but from the stress lines already taking form across his forehead, the bags of exhaustion under his eyes, the lifeless expression on his face, his heart hardly seemed in it. "By now you should know there's little hope in asking me to do that."

That was true, Hermione admitted at the rather idealistic thought, although she still couldn't quite bring herself to believe that he would voluntarily alienate himself from his fellow students to such an extent that he never even ate the Great Hall, even when most of the school's population was gone on holiday.

Although, of course, if he loved her, she assumed that there would always be ways of _convincing_ him…

_Hermione Nefertari Granger! You shouldn't use that against him!_

_I'm **not** using it against him,_ she argued stubbornly…or, at least, not in the negative light that the idea conveyed. If the humanity wasn't going to come to him, then she could at least try to bring him back to the humanity. And what harm was there in trying?

Earnestly, Hermione searched his hard, detached face. "Most of the important things in this world have been accomplished by people who kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all," she said softly. Her eyes flickering downward, she gently took his limp, frigid right hand in hers. On second thought, she added doubtfully, "You don't _really_ want to eat alone on Christmas, do you?"

She felt sick as she resisted pointing out, "Especially the last one you'll ever have?" _No, **NO!** Don't think about that!_

Tom's stormy eyes bore into hers like he was trying to read her very soul, his piercing gaze frustratingly unreadable. Finally, he audibly sighed and glanced down at her hand, still holding onto his. Cautiously, he interlaced his long fingers with hers, and Hermione smiled to herself as he murmured, "No, I don't suppose I do." Like an afterthought, his exhausted gaze traveled past her, back down the long hallway though which he had already come.

Following his line of sight, Hermione instantly recognized his dilemma. And, she also realized, she had to touch him. Soon. If she didn't, it didn't matter if they went to Great Hall together or parted their separate ways—the Anima curse had already drained his energy levels to the point of passing out, and she didn't doubt that he would.

Pocketing his note, the brunette slipped her left arm through his right, linking elbow, and immediately, she felt Tom's weary eyes on her, probing her quizzically. With good reason. Her mother hadn't permanently nicknamed her'my little girl'for the cuteness of it, nor had Lord Voldemort turned into a towering giant simply because he had resurrected himself in another body.

But right now, she couldn't care less that he was at least five inches taller than she was, if not more. Really, to anyone else, it may not have come off as that big of a deal, but to Hermione, getting Tom to agree to eat in the Great Hall was huge. _Huge._ Hey, if he would do it, she was going to help him get there.

Smiling encouragingly, she tilted her head up at him, haphazardly tossing some of her loose dark chocolate curls from her face. "You and I, we're going to make it, okay?"

Tom's lips briefly twisted upward in a weak, halfhearted manner that could have been called a sad attempt at a smirk, and he nodded.

_And heeeere we go._

Hermione braced herself as he gingerly released his hold on the wall. "Slowly," she hastily warned in more of an automatic response than anything else as, right away, she felt Tom stumble heavily into her side. Stubbornly, though, Hermione set her slender shoulder under his arm. Thank Merlin he didn't have the build of someone like Calugala Malfoy (tall but stocky, curse the prat). "Careful now, that's it—Watch!"

Suddenly, as if the stone floor itself had suddenly Disapperated, Tom's right leg unexpectedly gave out from under him, and he went down hard, faster than Hermione could even blink.

Hermione gasped, and, with more speed than she ever imagined she had, she simmultaneously jerked his sickly thin body to a stop before he could slam into the ground, every single muscle in her body stiffening, _somehow_ finding the strength in her to hold his weight until Tom—clinging to the first things he had managed to get a hold of, her left arm and shoulder, so tightly that the collar of her sweater dug sharply into the side of her neck—regained his balance and heaved himself up, winded, his chest visibly heaving furiously.

Without thinking twice, Hermione quickly slipped her arm around his side, securely hugging his tall frame with one arm. "Calm down, you're alright," she whispered soothingly, so close to him that she could actually feel the throbbing beats of his pounding heart, although she wasn't sure how much good her little support would do if he completely passed out on her. Nonetheless, she murmured, "Come on now, lean on me if you have to."

They must have made quite the pair, she thought wryly as the Heir of Slytherin obediently sagged against her side in his energy-depleted state as if _she_ were the 6'3 one. "That's it," she soothed quietly, calmly… but her eyes flew open in shock when Tom let out a shuddery sigh and heavily rested the right side of his face on the top of her head, his ragged breaths echoing sharply down the otherwise silent passageway.

From the night she had met him until now, even if he did love her, she had never expected the introverted Slytherin who had single-handedly put the _self_ in _self_-reliant to openly place as much trust, as much faith in her as he indirectly just had.

"That's it, you're alright," she repeated softly, slipping her arm farther around his side. Entirely of its own accord, her hand began to move in a small circle over his back, rubbing it comfortingly, her fingertips becoming slightly numb as they repeatedly ran themselves over the rough, worn material of his robe.

Hermione's heart was still racing frantically, easily as fast as his—never once had she seen anyone fall as quickly as Tom Riddle had, and, in battles especially, she had watched a lot of people go down. It suddenly occurred to her that her lungs felt like they were on fire, and she let out a long, deep _whoooosh_ of air that she couldn't quite recall taking in.

_Good **Lord,** that was scary._

After a few seconds of needed recuperation, she felt the weight of Tom's head on top of hers disappear, and he coughed once before weakly clearing his throat. "Sorry," he muttered stoically, his voice hoarse as he nonchalantly though slowly straightened his robes with his free hand. "Reflexes just aren't like they used to be."

But, even in the dim, flickering torchlight, when Hermione peered up at him, she could plainly see the beginnings of an embarrassed flush creeping up around his ears and the back of his neck. Forcing a cheerful note to her voice, she asked, "Want to try that one more time?" and lightly drummed her fingers on his back.

Tom closed his eyes and nodded, and Hermione linked her elbow with his once more, the corridor completely silent save his shuffling footsteps and her slow, deliberate ones. As they again carefully started back to the Great Hall together, she momentarily wondered what he had done that day that had drained his energy to such an extent that even her touch was disinclined to help him.

"Nice use of the _Subvectus_ and _Appareo_ charms, by the way," she said conversationally, her mind traveling back to the reason she had took off after him down the first floor corridors in the first place—the appearance of a little slip of paper.

Tom's pace had by no means quickened, but Hermione could tell that he seemed to be losing some of his initial sluggishness as, bit by bit, he eased his way erect, no longer having to lean entirely against her for support. His eyes remained closed tiredly, though, as he said faintly, "Thanks… took me the better part of two weeks to get them to work simultaneously…"

In true bookworm form, Hermione mentally flipped thought the pages of her advanced charm textbook, stopping on page 681. "Isn't the _Transferius_ designed for doing that sort of thing, though?"

Tom nodded again, allowing her to guide him around the bend and into the final corridor that opened up into the foyer outside the Great Hall—and Hermione was, once again, struck by the trust. "Yeah, I used it for a while, until I figured out the other two work better combined than it does alone, if you can weave the charms until they fit together perfectly."

"Really?" Hermione asked interestedly, briefly making a mental note. "I'm going to have to remember that." As the end of the hallway appeared well within reaching distance, and happy, cheerful chatter from in side the Great Hall next door became quite audible, she carefully slowed him down, curious. "Tom, what did the note say?"

Nothing—no surprise, no nervousness, no expression that might have given him away—nothing whatsoever crossed Tom's face, which was partially why Hermione suspected he still kept his eyes closed. Out of all the things he tried to mask, Hermione always had the best luck with reading those stormy blue gray pools.

Instead, in the most emotionless, most guarded voice Hermione had heard him use in weeks, the Slytherin said quietly, "It asked you to come to the Potions classroom at half past eight tonight."

Hermione's heart pounded faster, and her feet stopped moving a breath away from the towering Great Hall doors. "Why?" she asked warily, unable to keep a trace of suspicion from her voice. It wasn't that she thought he was going to jump her, but her last encounter with a Slytherin in an empty Potions classroom had soured her desire to be caught in the same kind of position again.

Tom finally cracked opened his eyes, seeming to have been considerably reenergized in the few minutes that she had made contact with him. "The note was not at liberty to say." A scheming, I-know-something-you-definitely-don't smirk broke out across his face, the simple sincerity of the expression giving him an extraordinarily attractive glow despite his ailing pallor as he added, "And, now that I think about it, neither am I."

Holding back a smile, Hermione glared at him. "Well, _you're_ not very helpful then; maybe I should just leave you out here." She reached for the great wooden handle but noticed that he wasn't following her when her linked arm yanked her back; impatiently, she turned around to ask what he on earth he was waiting for…

And the transformation was frighteningly unbelievable.

Like she had pushed some kind of terrible little button, Tom's handsome face had frozen over and stormily darkened to the most that it had since the day he had found out she was helping throw parties in the Room of Requirements without his knowledge so much so that Hermione honestly thought a shade had descended over his face.

_Merlin, what did I do?_she thought frantically as an explosive, loaded beat passed, a beat in which Tom simply, stonily stared at her.

Finally, in a low, deadly calm but icily rigid voice, he asked, "Do you really mean that, Nefertari?"

Hermione's mouth falling open at the sudden toxic frigidity of Tom's tone, and she tilted her head toward him in disbelief. Was he _serious?_ "What?" she asked dumbly, her mind fumbling for some rationalization to his actions. _Oh no._

_How can he not understand the idea of teasing?_

"I…of course not!" she spluttered, frantically searching for the right words to defuse the situation, "Tom…" It seemed like she could actually feel the icy waves radiating off him, and she felt her own blood chill in her veins. She had come too far to lose him now! But her tongue! It was currently flopping uselessly in her mouth, as if it had turned to sandpaper. "I… it—it wasn't _serious! _People tease!"

Tossing her stuttered, lame explanation away for the rubbish that it was, the Heir of Slytherin narrowed his eyes, dangerously lowering a lethal, tempestuous gaze on her —— with such intense ferocity, any other student may have and probably _would_ have scuttled away as fast as was humanly possible, no doubt while thinking _'the hell with this guy.'_

But Hermione wasn't like them. Oh yes, she had been, once, but now… she was above that, somehow. Now, concern was the only lingering emotion in her warm brown eyes, and she frowned pensively. _What on earth had fueled his rapid mood change?_

Without even considering fleeing the vicinity, Hermione turned herself so she was no longer standing at Tom's side but, rather, directly across from him, her left arm still loosely entwined with his now-rigid one. She hesitated before she dove in, partially expecting him to leave _her_ there and take off down the hallway, but he simply stood stiffly, not responding in one way or the other.

Alright, so if he wasn't going to leave, she wasn't going to let him get off so easily, either.

Furrowing her brow in concentration, the brunette quickly searched Tom's treacherously apathetic gaze, his doubtful expression, and...

Yes! There it was — now that she had a vague idea of what she was searching for, she could just catch it— that hardly perceptible look in his eyes, that pained look that he seemed so desperate to conceal... A hint that maybe this hard shell to which he was so quick to resort wasn't second nature after all, but, rather, a very convincing, very effective shield.

Rapidly, Hermione ran though all the files Dumbledore had given her on Tom Riddle, on all the experiences he had gone through in his life: His less-than-desirable father, what he knew of his mother, his time at an orphanage, the way he and the other students at Hogwarts got on… He was skittish, Hermione realized, and not just of her, but of people and good situations in general, the 'so much is going right that something must be wrong' type of outlook that he had been raised to expect from life.

But, with everything taken into consideration, she couldn't really blame him for it. Just like she couldn't really blamehim for what had happened to her parents, because he hadn't done it yet. And when he had, it hadn't really been this _him_ anymore.

_Dear God, he honestly **does** think I'm serious!_

Biting her lip nervously, Hermione hesitated, then stepped up to him, so close that the toe of her shoe could have easily brushed his. Cautiously, she reached up with her right hand, lightly cupping the cool, smooth side of Tom's etched, well-defined face before she lost her nerve. He flinched; she heard his breath hitch, but he didn't pull away, nor did she, and she felt his clenched jaw began to relax under her touch.

"Tom," the brunette whispered gently, softly, and in all genuine honestly, a small smile threatening to pull at her lips as he roughly pushed the side of his face more deeply into her palm's hold whether he meant to or not, "I would _never_ drag you all the way back to the Great Hall just to abandon you at the door."

After the cold façade he had just put on, the speed with which a burst of swirling, suffering emotion exploded behind Tom's gaze— not to mention the sheer magnitude of raw sentiment in his expression— shocked even Hermione. Sympathetically, she watched him just as quickly squeeze his eyes shut and sharply turn his head away from hers to cover his security breach.

Relieved, Hermione let out a breath of air. _Yes. I haven't lost him yet._ Lightly, she stroked her thumb over his cheek, wavered, and then added quietly, "And I really do mean that."

_I really do mean that. _

Without any warning whatsoever, a wave of dizziness swept over Hermione's head like a psychological tsunami the second the five words left her mouth. It was one of those rare times when she completely zoned out of the moment, time stopping everything around her except her herself, her stomach jumping to her throat, blood rushing to, pounding in her temples… And, for a single moment, all thoughts suspended into nothingness.

Except for two.

The first was the horrified —'horrified,' was that even the right word?— realization that she really _did_ mean it, what she had told him, meant it with every sincerest, purest intention she had.

_My dear God… _Dare she even think it?

_**Do** I – do I **lov—?**_

_But you **can't!** _Her rationality, what little was left that had not thrown up a white flag in defeat, fiercely cut off the above notion off before it could finish itself. _He's **dying!** Wherever this goes, **if** it even goes **anywhere,** you're only going to end up getting hurt!_

And on that beat, the second thought arrived. Swooped down on her, really, slamming into her so forcefully that her distant vision dimmed and yellowed, and she nearly blacked out from the force of it.

A wave of pure terror.

It absolutely, completely petrified her, what she was beginning to feel for Tom Riddle. And it wasn't the kind of fear that she had felt when she had battled for her life in the war, either, or when people, friends she had cared about had died before her very eyes, or when she had faced a life that seemed empty and uncertain without her parents.

No, this fear was new, unfamiliar territory for her, and, therefore, she deemed it just as debilitating as the other sort, if not more so.

Vaguely, she wondered if Tom had felt the same way, with her.

"Let's go in."

It shoved her back to earth, Tom's voice, considerably softened from its previous frigidness but still a bit rough around the edges nonetheless. Hermione shook her head vigorously, her long lashes blinking rapidly as she collected herself and refocused on him. "Sorry, what?"

Tom's gray eyes had reopened, his composed face showing no sign of the turmoil of emotion he had just undergone, though his voice sounded slightly strained. "I said, why don't we… you know..."

Hermione frowned at him questioningly. _No, I don't._

Impassively, he nodded down at their interlaced arms and muttered, "I don't think you want anyone getting the wrong impression."

Hermione hadn't felt as disappointed as she did then since the morning she had found the box of Malagan's Magically Sealing Condoms in Ron's packed-and-ready-to-go time travel trunk. "No, I wouldn't, would I?" she murmured, simultaneously dropping her hand from his face and untangling her left arm from his without looking at him.

Without her support, her tall Slytherin counterpart swayed unsteadily before he regained his stability. "Are you going to be alright?" she asked, concerned, boxing up the disappointment with masking tape and shoving it out of her mind. _Oh, get over it. He still loves you._

_HERMIONE GRANGER!_

As quickly as the thought entered her mind, her morality shoved it out after the box of disappointment.

It was almost daunting, though, the power she suddenly realized she could have over the Heir of Slytherin. Yes, she was human, the thought had to cross her mind sometime and yes, she _was_ in the position to use him, if she wanted to. Six months ago, she very well might have. But now, even if her mind considered taking advantage of the situation, which she highly doubted it would… she had a sneaking suspicion that her heart might get in the way first.

Resting his hand on the wooden door's smooth, shiny overlay, Tom swung his dark head in her direction, his gray eyes reluctant, his voice anything but. "Please, Nefertari, at least give me a little credit. I've made it this far, haven't I?"

Despite the tartness in the remark, Hermione couldn't stop herself from smiling. "Yeah, you have."

She nodded, and, like by some unspoken agreement, Tom pulled open the giant Great Hall door, his energy levels refilled enough that the act didn't require much effortImmediately, Hermione was temporarily blinded by an explosion of bright light, and her mouth began to water as her mind locked on the overpowering aroma of leftover Holiday Soiree kitchen creations. Tom casually leaned on the door to hold it open and unceremoniously stuck out his hand as if to say 'You first.'

Giving him another brief smile, Hermione entered the Hall; Tom quickly pulled the door shut with a quiet, scraping _thud_ and followed behind her so closely that she could actually sense his presence.

As her senses feasted on a twinkling, glittering, garland-enveloped Great Hall that was still mostly decorated from the Holiday Soiree, a chatter of lively conversation and a burst of laughter rang out from the front of the gigantic room, and Hermione felt, rather than saw, the Heir of Slytherin take a small step backward.

_Oh no, you don't!_

Without thinking twice, Hermione grabbed his icy hand and resolutely made for the long but crowded single table at the head of the room. It sat several of the staff, including Dippet and Dumbledore, and Harry, Ginny, Ron, Lavender, and Draco were well into their dinner, as were Phyllis Hardiman, Jacobson Andrews, a young Minerva McGonagall, and few other underclassmen Hermione didn't recognize.

Mid-giggle, Phyllis caught sight of Hermione and waved brightly. Sitting next to her, Ron must have seen the wave out of the corner of his eye, because he paused in his quest to devour every cinnamon soufflé at the table. "Merlin's beard, Hermione, d'you take a wrong turn on the first level—_Oh."_

Ron's loud, sour "Oh" actually caused every occupant at the table to either look up from their dinner or completely turn around to stare at the two Heads, or more specifically, at the Head _Boy,_ and beside her, Tom stiffened up again.

Hermione let out a silent groan, her thoughts vacillating between: _This is **not** what I needed!_ , _Oooooo, when I get my hands on Ronald Weasley! _, and _They're going to kill me for this, they're going to kill me…_

It was appalling, really, how easily she could pick out the emotions. Extreme surprise was scrawled all over the professors' faces; the underclassmen began nervously whispering in a little cluster, and the time travelers… Well, they held a little bit of everything, everything from incredulous confusion to dawning realization, although the open hatred on Ron's face was obvious.

Furtively shooting a peek to her right to make sure Tom wasn't actually doing anything to warrant what Ron was giving him, Hermione found the Slytherin indifferently standing a step behind her, his face appearing blasé and placidly undaunted with the "warm" reception. Something, though, something was tugging at her hand, and, glancing down, she realized with a bit of a start that it was him, discreetly trying to wrench himself away. So Mr. Calm and Collected wasn't as unconcerned as he looked.

With a rush of exasperated anger toward every single person at the table — they who could be _so_ quick to judge so harshly yet so slow to forgive and to forget — Hermione stubbornly gripped Tom's resisting hand more tightly while shooting a surreptitious, dark glare at Ron.

"Merry Christmas, everyone," she said brightly, pointedly ignoring Ron's steadily reddening face as she turned abruptly and gave the line of professors a winning smile, intentionally avoiding Tom's probing, piercing gaze that was clearly saying, _'Let go of me.'_ "Headmaster, professors; sorry we're late."

_Ooooo,_ she hated awkward silences!

Dumbledore was the first to speak. "Not at all, Hermione," he said genially, using the first-name basis he and she had established to keep up the appearance of relation. He rose from his seat to acknowledge the pair and gracefully motioned with his hand to the little empty space at the end of the table, his gaze interestedly lingering on her and Tom's interlaced hands. "I trust you're having a fine Christmas."

"Just wonderful, thanks," Hermione breathed diplomatically, years of friendship alerting her at the exact moment Harry's intense emerald stare swept onto her face.

It was all too much to handle at once! Hermione needed the proper time to clarify the situation for them, but she couldn't now, not with Tom and the rest of the world right there… and she couldn't bear to see any glares she might receive in the meanwhile. _Ignore them… just ignore them…_

As she lifted her chin and marched over to the open seats with Tom in tow, the wise old—or, rather, _young_ redheaded professor added, a trace of mild curiosity in his omniscient voice, "Tom, it's good to see you here."

_**Thank** you, Uncle Al. _As she dropped down next to Minerva McGonagall, scooting over as far as she could to leave enough room for Tom, Hermione mentally got down on her knees and paid Dumbledore the homage the man deserved.

Easily reaching Dumbledore's lofty eyelevel, Tom briefly stared across the table at the future Headmaster, as if he couldn't quite figure him out. "Thank you, sir," he eventually, tonelessly said in his yet weakened voice—to which Draco smirked— and he slid into the bench alongside Hermione. Dumbledore, too, dropped back into his seat, but not before Hermione noticed his shrewd blue eyes twinkling like twin diamonds.

Hermione knew better than to wonder what _he_ was so cheerful about.

Like an _'On' _button was pressed, the table conversation resumed, although it was a little more reserved: Phyllis and Jacobson began chatting amicably with Minerva McGonagall, and Hermione distantly heard Ginny whispering, her voice stern yet so quiet that Hermione hardly caught it, "Coolit, brother dear. I don't like it either, but she's a big girl. She can handle herself."

"But he's… he's… _him!" _Ron spluttered under his breath. Good thing Tom was probably far enough away to not be in hearing range of the redheads' hushed conversation.

Sighing heavily, Hermione let her head fall to the table, her forehead and wooden boards connecting with a tiny, dully painful _BANG_, morosely returning to her most pressing concern: She was going to have to explain it to them soon, whatever 'it' was, and when that moment came, she didn't even _want_ to imagine about howit would go:

_Yeah, um, you all remember the guy who goes on to kill my parents, kill your parents, Harry, kill our friends… just kill a lot of people in general, really— But wait, before I tell you, **don't** worry, it's not like I'm **completely** betraying you: he's only got less than a month to live anyway, probably! ... AndIthinkImightfancyhim._

There. It was out.

And admitting it to herself didn't exactly make Hermione feel much better, so she quickly forced her mind from the topic before her conscience drove her _mad._

Of course, thinking about the object of her turmoil wasn't exactly a happy medium either, as she wasn't quite certain _how_ he had felt about the dinner table's welcoming glares, what with the mixed signal _'Love me, hate me; either way, I don't really give a damn'_ facial expression, contrasted with the _'Damn it, let **go** of me and get me **out** of here' _hand yanking.

Out of nowhere, Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise on edge, and she could sense the Heir of Slytherin's close proximity to her before he even began to speak. His warm breath near her neck became quite perceptible as, sounding remotely amused, he remarked, "Nefertari, you never told me you ate tables."

Good, so it hadn't really affected him. "Haven't you heard, it's a hobby of mine," Hermione deadpanned though her arm. She groaned and turned her head to one side, squinting in the, bright twinkling light as she peered up at him. "And _you_ never told me you were funny."

"Because I'm not," Tom countered matter-of-factly, a small smirk playing at his lips, his stormy eyes losing more of that mistrusting, edgy gleam that they had held outside the Great Hall. Pulling out his wand and absently twirling it around his fingers, he leaned closer to her, several locks of dark hair curling loosely into his face as he asked quietly, "Do you normally drag people off to eat like this?"

Hermione's sweater had suddenly become hot, far too hot for the normally drafty Great Hall, and she resisted the urge to fan herself with her plate. "You came willingly, if I remember correctly," she retorted, throwing him a smug smirk and biting back a mischievous grin.

Tom skeptically raised his eyebrows at her, and Hermione could tell he was trying not to scowl. "Right I did, until the part where you towed me up here like you were a bloody tugboat." He reached for a pitcher half-full of orange liquid that was partially obscured behind a mountain of steak-and-kidney pie. "Pumpkin juice?"

"Sure." Hermione laughed and sat back up, rubbing her left cheek. She figured some obnoxiously large red mark probably remained in the spot where the hard table and her head had connected. "Sorry about that, by the way."

"I might find it in myself to forgive you this time," Tom said good-naturedly. Flipping his long sleeves back over themselves once, she picked up the small cauldron-sized, rounded jug and brought it closer to the empty glass that had appeared in front of her. Just when he was about to start pouring, he seemed to think of something, paused, and, with a crafty edge to his voice, asked, "And where, exactly, do you want it?"

Hermione's mouth fell open. _Ohhhhh, so **now** you want to play. _She whipped around to stare at the smirking Heir of Slytherin so rapidly, the ends of her long wave of curls flew out, catching Minerva in the side of the face, and a rush of adrenaline sent her heart pounding so heavily, she could actually hear it: _KA-THUMP, KA-THUMP. _

Hermione heard McGonagall's younger self huff and turn back to her conversation with Phyllis and Jacobson, but right now the rest of the table's occupants were the _last_ thing on her mind. While her gaping mouth didn't close completely, a sly little smile tugged at the right corner of her lips. "Hmmm. Well that all depends," she mused thoughtfully, forcing the grin from her face, crossing her arms interestedly. Innocently, she inquired, "Where can I get it?"

The small smirk on Tom's face amplified, and he set down the jug of juice, again twirling his wand around his fingers and holding it like it was a quill. "Oh, we've got your basic pub service, but for your convenience, we also deliver to our poolside lounge, or to our courtyard if you'd care for a bit of fresh air with your order," he said nonchalantly as if he was simply rattling off a well-recited list to another customer, his Irish accent surprisingly outweighing his Queen's English with the act.

He paused—intentionally, it seemed— and then added, "And, should you need _anything,_ anything at all, we will, of course, be at your disposal twenty-four hours a day."

Hermione's heart was positively hammering away in her chest now, but her exterior facade was the epitome of calm as she mused over his words, the entire risqué-ness of their spontaneous little banter sending her audacity level soaring and her risk-assessment skills plunging. She hovered undecidedly over the words, separately feeling each one out in her mouth and trying them on for size… and, before she lost her confidence, she asked coolly, "And does that offer include room service as well?"

Instantly, but to her amusement rather than her embarrassment, a high-pitched, reprimanding little voice that sounded suspiciously like Mrs. Weasley rattled in the back of her mind, _**OH MY HEAVENS, **HERMIONE GRANGER NEFERTARI, **WHAT **WOULD YOUR MOTHER SAY?_

Well, thank Merlin they were sitting at the farthest end of the table!

Tom's eyebrows shot up at the question before he theatrically frowned and broodingly cocked his head to the right, scribbling some figures down on an imaginary pad of paper as if he was seriously considering it. Finally, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "I do apologize, but that's going to cost you a _whole_ lot extra, I'm afraid."

"You _prat!"_ Hermione lightly exclaimed with a laugh, elbowing an amused Tom sharply. "Just pour it before I die of thirst!"

And then what Hermione had labeled "The Smile" made its short-lived but shining appearance— the smile that displayed a bright flash of white, crinkled lines of amusement around the edges of his gray eyes, and lit up the Heir of Slytherin's face to such an extent that he appeared leagues older, but in not in the literal way—older in that he seemed more mature, more open, and just a whole lot happier.

His smile disappeared as quickly as it came, however, and he deftly picked up the pitcher and tipped it to the edge of her goblet before filling his. Hermione glanced over at him again, her own grin leaving her face but not her eyes. "Now, honestly tell me…This isn't so bad, is it?"

"It's a bit hard to say," he responded ambiguously, and unexpectedly stretched one long arm around her back, plucking a bowl of rolls off the table near her far elbow. Obviously, he was also forced to fully lean against her in the process so that even she slanted over to the left… But, rather than beating him off, Hermione playfully arched one thin eyebrow, glancing at him sideways as he briefly pressed the lower half of his jaw against her head so that his mouth was directly above her ear.

Any remaining thought of her friends' reactions to the idea of her having a close relationship with Tom Riddle was deemed totally and completely inconsequential by Hermione as his warm breath caressed her skin, and she smiled as, in a low voice, he said in a low voice, "I haven't even tried the food yet."

**A/N:** LEAVE ME A REVIEW SO I KNOW THAT EVEN THOUGH YOU ALL ARE BACK AT SCHOOL AND WORKING HARD (as am I), YOU ARE STILL READING THE STORY!


	27. Have You Ever Been Kissed, Part 1

**A/N:** Thank you, one and all, for your lovely reviews. Really. Thank you so much for your feedback! They're so introspective and just really thoughtful, guys. Thanks : - ) Remember, check the BIO for review responses and answers to questions! It should be up by FRIDAY NIGHT! I would like to thank everyone for the great ideas for Hermy's xmas present, they were all wonderful and I had such a hard time choosing I had to combine. And I would also like to thank Gywnn Potter for the Slytherin Amulet idea. You go, girl! Wow, I am way too tired. Senior pics today, y'know.

NOTE TO READERS: I love this entire chapter. LOVE it. Just so you know,this is only the FIRST HALF of the chapter that I love. WARNING: Right, so I was typing this chapter up, and I passed ten pages, and then fifteen, and it just kept coming and coming…at 40, I decided that I had to split it up. A _ton_ of stuff is happening everywhere, and you might not have caught it with it being as long as it is, but this means I can UPDATE the second part SOONER (yay)… and it really is better this way. Oh, and just an ending note: Right now, Tom is dying. What would you do if _you_ knew you were dying?

_Hermione glanced over at him again, her own grin leaving her face but not her eyes. "Now, honestly tell me…This isn't so bad, is it?"_

"_It's hard to say," Tom responded ambiguously, and unexpectedly stretched one long arm around her back, plucking a bowl of rolls off the table near her far elbow. Obviously, he was also forced to completely lean against her in the process so that even she slanted over to the left… But, rather than beating him off, Hermione playfully arched one thin eyebrow, glancing at him sideways as he briefly pressed the lower half of his jaw against her head so that his mouth was directly above her ear. _

_Any remaining thought of her friends' reactions to the idea of her having a close relationship with Tom Riddle was deemed inconsequential by Hermione as his warm breath caressed her ear, and she smiled as, in a low voice, he murmured, "I haven't even tried the food yet."_

**Chapter 27: Snogs, Secrets, and Serpents, Part 1**

Saturday, December 25, 1944

8:05 A.M.

Outside the line of west windows, the stars still shone brightly, the inky nighttime blackness only beginning to mix with the clear bright glow that signaled the dawn of another crisp, wintry morning. Anyone in their right mind should have still been asleep for at least another hour or two. After all, it _was_ Christmas morning.

Obviously, then, Hermione must have been quite mad, as she was currently sprawled with her feet up across her favorite tan leather sofa in the Head common room, staring pensively into the dying embers of last night's fire. The smoking heat still radiated the few feet from the fireplace to where she sat, and she smiled contentedly, closing her eyes and snuggling up against the soft, comfortingly warm, poufy pillow that seemed to mold with her head.

She, Harry, Ron, Lavender, Ginny, and Draco hadn't planned to meet up in the Room of Requirements for a gift exchange until 9:30. All of her Christmas assignments had been completed, labeled, and filed away until school started up again. So she really hadn't the slightest idea why she was up so early.

She heard Tom's door open at the top of his flight of stairs, and she lazed on, not quite ready to vacate the luxurious couch. She counted to fifteen, giving him plenty of time to get down, and then, eyes still closed sleepily, she cheerfully called, "Good morning!"

The unmistakable sound of footsteps on hardwood floor immediately stopped. "Morning." The stale voice that greeted her was gravelly and low, giving the impression that he was still half asleep but was already in a foul mood.

_Oh, no, you are **not** going to be like this on Christmas._ Hermione poked her tousled bed head up over the back of the sofa. "And a Happy Christmas to you, too—Are you alright?" She asked abruptly as she finally got a view of the Heir of Slytherin… and he looked awful.

Not that he could ever _really_ look awful in the worst sense of the word but he appeared utterly drained. His gray eyes had lost their defiant storminess; now they were simply exhausted and bleary, with deep, dark circles underneath them that were made even more obvious against his ashen face; his thick hair was shockingly messy and unkempt, and his robes were crumpled, almost as if he had collapsed in bed the night before still wearing them.

"If you consider feeling like you've been hit by a train alright, then yes, I rather am, thanks for asking," he muttered, tiredly shuffling over to her couch. Hermione pulled her pajama-clad legs up to her chest to make enough room for him, and he sank down next to her, promptly burrowing the back of his head into the smooth, soft leather and closing his eyes.

Hermione faced Tom, folded her legs Indian-style and momentarily surveyed him. "Well?"

As the sun finally edged its way over the horizon, Tom reluctantly opened one eye and squinted at her, getting hit right in the face with the first rays of morning light. "Well what?"

A small, secretive smile played at Hermione's lips, her eyes crinkling mischievously. "Don't you want your Christmas present?" she asked innocently, but her foot was bouncing up and down in the same eager anticipation she had whenever she gave somebody a gift and wanted them to _open _it, gosh dang it!

"My _what?"_ Tom asked uncomprehendingly. He reopened both eyes and pulled himself straight up, regarding her as if she had unexpectedly turned into a mutated, completely new species of blast-ended skrewt—an anomaly that, in theory, should have never been possible.

"Your Christmas present," Hermione repeated with a smile. She reached for a small, silver gift bag that had been sitting inconspicuously on the floor at the foot of the sofa, and she handed it to him. "Here. Happy Christmas."

Tom took the pint-sized bag without really looking at it, frowned, and warily searched her eyes, a small, almost suspicious expression on his face. "But I haven't given you anything," he said eventually, and Hermione didn't miss the large amount of confusion in his tone that he was trying —and failing— to hide.

"I know." Hermione shrugged indifferently, her slipper-clad foot still jiggling unintentionally. Whether Tom gave her a Christmas present or not mattered little to her; all she knew was that time was running out for the both of them, and she had wanted him to have at least one really meaningful thing in his life while he was still…

Her smile faded slightly, and she stopped herself before she mentally spoke the thought, but her stream of consciousness finished it anyway.

_While he was still alive._

_No. No, I'm not doing this._ It was Christmas, a day which Hermione was planning to make a complete vacation from her reality. Tom could take a turn for the worse tomorrow and be gone the next day, for all she knew, but she was _not_ going to think about it today. _Not today._

The smile brightened again, she nodded at the bag. "Open it."

With one last wary glance in her direction, Tom tilted his head downward, a wave of dark hair spilling across his forehead, and slowly pulled from the bag a smooth, cloudy sphere that couldn't have been much bigger than the palm of his hand. The strange little ball was perched on a little velvet stand.

His face perplexed, Tom set the bag on the couch next to him and looked at her questioningly. "What is it?" he asked quietly.

Another energized grin broke out across her face. "When I got my invitation to school, my parents were afraid I'd get homesick. It being my first year away from them and the like—or it could have been _them_ being separated from me, now that I think about it…"

It sounded right… Hermione had always felt a bit guilty over how they had always seemed to miss her more than she did them. She shrugged. "Anyway, it's called an Orb of Eternity—have you heard of those?"

The Slytherin narrowed his eyes contemplatively, glanced back down at the sphere again, and shook his head.

"Oh—I suppose they're rather rare," she mused to herself, and it was true: She yet to meet anyone else who owned an Orb of Eternity. She couldn't even remember from which shop her parents bought it, exactly. "I mean, my mum and dad nearly fainted when they saw the bill on it—"

And they nearly had. The eleven-year-old Hermione had found it highly amusing. She didn't mention how she was certain her parents must have run around Diagon Alley in a state of dazed awe at their first exposure to the wizarding world as they tried to find her a proper going-away gift….

The only reason they had finally decided upon it in the first place, they had told her, was because they thought it looked like a crystal ball, and from muggle movies, they had assumed that witches and wizards and crystal balls naturally went together.

"—but basically what happens is you hold it in your hand, and the clouds swirl around for a bit to heighten the suspense, and then it shows an image of someone," Hermione continued. "Whether that someone currently dead or alive, it doesn't matter, the only requirement is that he or she lo—_care_s or cared about the Holder. "

He didn't look especially enlightened—and had he understood the magnitude of the Orb, what it meant to her, even he would have had a bit more expression on his face. _Um, how to explain… Oh._ Hermione reached for the ball and glanced up him. "Do you mind?"

Tom shook his head and noncommittally gestured for her to take it.

"Thanks." Hermione plucked the petite, perfect sphere off the fancy stand and carefully balanced it in her palm, easily sliding into her teaching element, as Tom seemed to be listening attentively to her lecture on the intricacies of the Orb of Eternity. "So, when I hold it, sometimes I'll see my friends… and sometimes, I'll see my parents."

She paused before her voice could crack as an image of her mum and dad, laughing and waving at her, materialized though the haze and clouds inside the Orb, and a small, fond smile spread across her face. _Hey Mum, Dad._ "It's different for each Holder, though. I mean, when _you_ look into it, you're obviously not going to see my parents."

Almost reverently, Hermione turned the ball over in her hand and hastily handed it back to him. "And the feelings that the person in the Sphere felt—or feel—for the Holder—they travel through the hand and right into the soul… So whenever I felt discouraged, or alone, all I had to do was pick up that little ball, and I'd feel my parents' love—"

Abruptly, she broke off; like a catalyst, something about the last words had suddenly triggered in her a wave of emotions that she thought she had buried long ago. Burning, scathing tears sprung to the edges of her eyes, ominously threatening to spill over and fall. _No… no… I will not cry… I **will** not cry…_

Faintly, Hermione finished, "And I'd feel their love for me as if they had been sitting right next to me the entire time."

_I will **not** cry… Oh, dammit, why does this always happen when I'm in front of people?_ she thought despairingly, desperately clenching her jaw to keep her chin from trembling.

Throughout her entire explanation, Tom's face had remained fairly blank, but his eyes had gone through a wide spectrum of emotions, beginning with complete surprise, then moving on to curiosity, a bit of longing, and now… Hermione couldn't name the exact emotion in his swirling gray pools, but it was there, lots of it.

Limply holding out the sphere in his outstretched hand, the same raw emotion in his voice that was shining in his eyes, the Heir of Slytherin whispered, "Nefertari, I can't take this away from you."

"Yes, you can." Sniffing only once, she determinedly gave the tears a final shove away, and she gently closed Tom's cold, long fingers around the Orb of Eternity. "I don't need it to remember how much they cared about me. I want you to keep it. I'll be forever insulted if you don't, actually."

Tom smirked halfheartedly. "Well, I can't very well have that." He uncomfortably shifted his weight on the sofa and opened his mouth like he was beginning to say something, then abruptly shut it again and stared vacantly into the dying embers of the fire, their light overpowered by the orange, gold, and white rays of sunlight now positively streaming into the common room.

Hermione could help herself. "What?" she asked curiously.

He glanced over at her briefly but soon returned his gaze to the fire and sighed. He hesitated, then asked carelessly, quite apathetically, as if throwing the question out like it meant nothing to him, "Nefertari, what if the Holder doesn't see anyone?"

Oh, but it did mean something to him, Hermione realized with a start. He was afraid that no one cared enough for their image to appear in the Orb. _Is he blind?_ her mind screamed, wanting to reach out, grab his shoulders, and throttle him. Instead, she simply smiled knowingly. "You will."

**Saturday, December 25, 1944**

**8:11 P.M.**

"Sean doesn't ask for money, he just takes it," Jacobson Andrews was saying irritatedly. "The little creep is actually becoming a problem now. He memorized my Gringotts account number backwards in a mirror, and now he dips in whenever he feels the urge, goes to the Quiddich pro shop, and splurges like the bloody little crook that he is."

"Can't you get a new account number?" Hermione asked, her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm, watching the Gryffindor interestedly. And she wasn't the only one locked on Jacobson's dinner table regaling—Ginny, Ron, Minerva, and Phyllis (and anyone else within ear range) were also listening to his sob story in rapt attention.

"I've tried that already. _Twice._ Hell if I know how he figured _those_ out."

Hermione laughed with the others and surreptitiously glanced at Tom. His mouth was actually quirked up in what could be called a miniature smile-smirk, and, although he appeared to not be paying attention, Hermione could tell from the way his head was tipped just barely in Jacobson's direction that he was.

Suddenly, the Heir of Slytherin's gray eyes slid to the left, toward her. Hermione didn't hide the fact that she had been looking at him, but, rather, steadily returned his gaze, tilting her head questioningly. Discreetly, he raised his eyebrows at her and nodded up at the gigantic grandfather clock on the far wall of the Great Hall.

8:15.

And, with a jolt, Hermione remembered the note.

"_Tom, what did it say?"_

…_."It asked you to come to the Potions classroom at half past eight tonight."_

Well, here goes nothing.

Forcing a slightly nervous smile to her face, Hermione nodded, pushing back and standing up, acutely aware of Ginny, Harry, and Ron's eyes on her back as she did. Trying to look solely at the three people on her far side of the bench, she forced a smile to her face and said, "Well, I hope you all have a lovely end of Christmas."

"Yes, Happy Christmas, you two," Phyllis replied with a knowing little smile, Jacobson and she standing up as well. Luckily for both Hermione and Tom, many of the professors also chose that general time to vacate the Hall, causing the attention to be shifted to the opposite end of the table.

Dumbledore stood first, receiving a chorus of echoed "G'night, professor"s. The man caught Hermione's eye and smiled; she smiled back thankfully as he pressed the tips of his fingers together, a sure sign that he was about to launch into some long-winded story about unrest in the world, and waited at the foot of the table for Professor Rickter to follow.

Tom glanced back at her and began to thread his way around the table and out of the hall. Hermione trailed him at first, her mind swirling, running through whatever possible scenarios involved meeting at the Potions room, and the thought occurred to her that she might actually die of curiosity. _Die._

_You're a sodding coward, Hermione. Just **ask** him, why don't you? _She wasn't quite sure was she was so antsy about this, but... she was.

Hermione sighed and reluctantly quickened her pace, drawing up alongside the Slytherin. Keeping her voice low so Dumbledore and Rickter who were following a few feet behind and deep in discussion wouldn't be able to hear, she asked, "So, are we still going to the Potions room, now that we're already together?"

"We don't have to." Tom shrugged indifferently, taking out his wand and absently twirling it around his fingers as they walked. "It'd probably be faster if we didn't, actually. It just seemed like a fairly accessible meeting place at the time."

"Oh." All preconceived scenarios promptly flew into the mental rubbish bin, and Hermione bit her lower lip pensively. They were a good halfway out of the Great Hall by now, and, before she lost her nerve, she hastily started to inquire, "Where are we g—"

"Hey Nef, wait up!"

She immediately tensed at Draco's familiar drawl unexpectedly cutting through the air behind her, and thought she saw Tom do the same.

_Oh, God, they're either going to drag me back or force me to take him as a chaperone._ _No, no, no…._

Hermione stiffly stopped herself before she could take off running for the exit and distractedly waved for Tom to keep going, giving him a small, reassuring smile as Draco jogged over, his silk hair bouncing a bit with each step, a little smirk on his complacent face.

Tom, however, clearly had other ideas in mind, and he paused nonchalently a few steps away, his hands idly in his pockets, his head ducked toward the floor. She didn't have to be a genius to figure out that he wanted to be close enough to hear any words that might pass between her and the blond Slytherin… who was, at the moment, less than a wand length away.

_Well, might as well get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible._

"What do you want?"she asked rather abruptly, so much so that she immediately felt bad about it. She couldn't take it back now, though; all she could do was lift her chin and steel herself for the worst she thought he could and would throw at her…

To her (wary) surprise, Draco's smirk merely grew, and he began to raise his arm. _Blood**y hell,** he's actually going to drag me back— ! _

But her fears were proven incorrect when he simply said, "This got buried under Evans and West's wrapping paper disaster area this morning."

Her eyes narrowing suspiciously, Hermione followed his gaze down to his hand."Oh, it's just the sweater!" she exclaimed in (un-wary, now) surprise as he handed her a beautiful, expensively made periwinkle blue cashmere sweater. Relief instantly surged through her body. _Thank you **God!**_

Draco gave her a scowl that didn't look as scary as it probably should have. "Glad to hear I'm appreciated."

"No, sorry, I really did _not_ mean that like it just came out," she laughed, more at herself as she realized that her arm was still shaking slightly, and she clenched her hand to stop it. "Seriously, I really was wondering where it had gotten to. I thought my room might have eaten it; it's an absolute horror at the moment." She smiled and took the super-soft pullover from his outstretched hand, and, having nowhere else to put it, tied the arms around her waist. "Thanks again. It really is lovely."

The smirk reappeared on his face, and he casually flicked some platinum hair out of his slyly shining eyes. "Just remember that the next time you decide to A: break my foot while we're dancing, B: ignore me for three days, or C: punch me in the face."

"Hey!" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes twinkling playfully, and she whacked his sweater-clad shoulder lightly. Yes indeed, like Hermione, Draco du Lac was also wearing muggle clothes—albeit _designer_ muggle clothes, but muggle clothes nonetheless. "No fair holding that against me--that was years ago!"

A soft cough behind her reminded her that Tom Riddle had most likely been privy to their entire conversation. _Ohhh right._ _Don't tell me you forgot about that, Hermione!_ She paused awkwardly, wondering what she could use as an excuse for voluntarily leaving the Great Hall with Tom Riddle on Christmas night for Merlin knew how long.

_Homework? _

No, even Draco wouldn't believe that.

_Head Business? _

No again, Dippet had looked and sounded like he had had one too many glasses of honeysuckled rose cordial at dinner, so that wouldn't fly, either.

_Erm, just because I **want** to?_

Hermione couldn't even bring herself to think about how Draco would react to _that_ explanation. Finally, she decided to stick with avoiding it entirely. Lowering her voice even further so Tom, still a considerable distance away, shouldn'tbe able to overhear, she said quietly, "I should be up at the Room of Requirements by 10:30, alright?"

Draco's clear azure eyes momentarily narrowed in the Heir of Slytherin's direction, but he nodded shortly. "Alright, whatever you say, Nef…" He glanced at her sharply, an 'Oops, too bad' expression crossing his face. "But if you're not _exactly_ on time, even I won't be able to stop your other two thirds when they go off on a quest to rescue you," he warned, waggling his finger at her.

"I know," Hermione said heavily, easily imagining Ron and Harry doing just that. _Do I ever know._ "Thanks, Draco. I appreciate this." She gave him a small, grateful smile; turned to go—and nearly fell in a heap on the floor.

Her feet were glued in place.

"What the devil…" Draco tried to step away and vehemently swore under his breath. Glancing back at him in confusion, Hermione saw the Slytherin was stuck in pretty much the same way that she was. _What on **earth—**_ _Come on, Hermione, think logically here. If **he's** surprised…then **he **didn't do it… and **you** didn't do it…_

Her stomach tightened in dread, and she fervently prayed that her vague idea of why she could not continue moving toward the exit of the Great Hall was absolutely wrong. Almost simultaneously, she and he tilted their heads toward the ceiling, and Hermione's mouth fell open into a horrified little 'O.'

_Oh sweet Merlin, **no.**_

Directly above them, a bundle of mistletoe was quivering excitedly. The bloody thing was probably gleefully laughing its ribbon off.

"_Oooo,_ Hermione and Draco!" Phyllis yelled gleefully as she and Jacobson trotted by on their way out of the Great Hall.

_**Hey!** You were supposed to be on my side!_ Hermione thought indignantly, shooting a lethal glare at Phyllis before the two Gryffindors stopped a few feet away, near Tom, probably to stick around and watch the action unfold, Hermione thought sullenly. Of course, Jacobson would have to let out Quiddich-worthy wolf-whistle as he did so and, suddenly, all attention on the Great Hall seemed to be focused solely on Draco and Hermione.

Of all the stupid tricks that fate was obviously enjoying at her expense…

Draco's eyes suddenly lit up. _Not a good sign,_ Hermione thought faintly as he brought his lips close to her ear. "Well, Nef, now that we're stuck here, we might as well make the best out of it," he murmured in a low, suggestive and not entirely reassuring voice.

"What is that supposed to mean?"she hissed, instinctively shooting a quick look at Tom, although she wasn't quite certain why. He was standing in pretty much the same position he had been in before, hands in pockets, face apathetic, but he had tensed immensely, and his head was no longer bowed but perfectly erect as his dark gaze moved between her and Draco...

_Stupid,** bloody** mistletoe!_

"It means that _you—"_ he waved his hand at her with a flourish, "—can help me show _them—"_ he twisted around and aimlessly flungthe hand toward Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Lavender, still sitting at the dinner table and staring between her, Draco, and the mistletoe as if they had just noticed what was going on, "—that I'm not gay," he finished, as if he was explaining the obvious point of a game to a particularly slow child in the middle of class.

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, quickly becoming horrified as the words resonated in her mind. Whatever his little 'making the best of it' idea was, it was beginning to sound like _she_ was the one who would be getting ths shorter end of the stick. _Much _shorter. "How d'you figure that one?" she asked warily.

"Wait, wait, let me finish," Draco continued dramatically, holding up his hand, and her interruption caused him to appear slightly put-out. "As I was saying, you can help me show them I'm not gay by letting me demonstrate my abilities."

Hermione actually snorted, realizing that their hushed and somewhat intense, whispered conversation was probably leaving the onlookers in a great deal of suspense. "I can help you?" she echoed in amusement. "Maybe my hearing's begun to fail me, but I do believe the problem is entirely _yours,_ Draco dear, not mine."

Looking back on the situation, she saw that it had had the potential to be immensely funny… had _she_ not been the one stuck under the mistletoe. Suddenly, she rolled her eyes as the last thing he had said registered. "Your 'abilities?' "

_Do I even want to know what those are?_

"Yes, my _abilities," _he retorted as if her ignorance of these "abilities" was a personal insult to his ego. "And you know Wonder Boy, Reds Senior and Junior, and the Laughing Menace will never let me live that down if I don't give him an example!" he hissed in her ear.

_Oh, God._ And she thought that kissing Viktor in public had been bad enough.

Mentally running through every curse she knew and systematically hurling them at the mistletoe, Hermione regarded Draco--though she wasn't quite sure what she was looking for, exactly-- but when she didn't find it, she let out a loud, exasperated sigh and threw up her hands. "Oh, _alright. _Do what you have to, make it snappy, and don't you dare get messy."

_**Blasted Christmas decorations!**_

A tiny smirk quirked at Draco's lips but Hermione hardly noticed; all she knew was that his mouth was moving toward her with an aura of unspoiled confidence, and she squeezed her eyes shut... _Oh God, let it be fast, let it be—_

The mistletoe burst into a metaphorical ball of flames as Draco locked onto her mouth with such force, she actually couldn't _breathe…_ She managed a tiny gasp, though, and Draco, apparently taking that as a signal to go forward, deepened the kiss; distantly she heard another one of Jacobson's piercing whistles cut through the Great Hall, and it was obvious to her that Draco knew what he was doing...

But Hermione couldn't kiss him back. She just couldn't.

All she could think was that everything about this felt so, _so _wrong, and with a large amount of effort, she abruptly pulled back from him so hard that she stumbled backward a step, gasping in a breath; after the way he had kissed her, the mistletoe clearly had no other choice but to let them go.

_Oh my... Oh my God..._

The blond casually caught her before she could fall and grinned down at her boyishly. "Thanks, Nef, I _think_ that did the trick…." He trailed off, his gaze sliding over her shoulder. Suddenly, a smirk appeared on his face, the exact same smirk Hermione had seem him repeatedly give Harry in seventh year after the one Quiddich game that he had beaten the Gryffindor prodigy to the Snitch.

Curiously, Hermione frowned and glanced over her shoulder, following his gaze... and stopped at Tom Riddle. Immediately, she narrowed her eyes, calculatingly looking between Draco's smug face and Tom's hollow, dark expression… and she easily figured out exactly who Draco's smirk was meant for.

Pure anger surged through every nerve of her body, momentarily blinding her rationality, but she honestly didn't give a damn. Furiously, she turned back on Draco. "Why, you _little— "_

_SLAP! _

The sharp, otherwise completely unexpected sound resonated throughout the Great Hall so soundly that, immediately, a thick silence settled down up on the room like a cloud of fog, and an angry, bright red handprint burst out on Draco's perfect ivory skin.

Hermione actually took a step back toward Draco and jabbed a finger at his chest, and the Slytherin stared at her in actual shock, as if he couldn't possibly believe that she would ever do that to _him. _Still, she vehemently hissed, "Your little charms might work on every other woman on the planet, but I have been gifted with _extraordinary_ resistance from men like you!"

_The **nerve** of Draco Malfoy du Lac!_ But honestly... what in God and Merlin's names was he playing at?

Giving a dumbstruck Draco one last snooty, fuming glare, she proudly lifted her chin and marched toward the exit. "Come _on," _she barked irately as she passed Tom, and she was mildly surprised as he wordlessly followed her stormy departure from the Great Hall.

Hermione breezed through the doorway ahead of him, her mind miles away, and angrily spluttered, "That… that… _arrrrgh!"_ She balled her fists in frustration and considered slamming them against the nearest wall, but thought better of it at the last minute and instead flung them into the air, shaking them. After a moment, she turned back to Tom, seething, still too shocked and livid to form coherent sentences. _"ARRRR!"_

Tom pulled the door shut behind him and turned around to face her, his eyebrows flying up in surprise at her latest cavewoman-like growl. "Nefertari, have you lost your bloody mind?"

She let out a little, dignified snort and rolled her eyes. "Don't you give me that, you know perfectly well what I'm on about. That arrogant, self-absorbed _wanker!"_

Heatedly, she raked a hand through her long, curly tresses and began to mutter darkly, more to herself than to Tom, "And here he came _crawling_ back to me this morning, all, _'Ohhhh, _Nef, _forgive_ me, I haven't _really_ meant to be a prat lately…' Just… just…_ Oooo!"_

Hermione was partially surprised that, instead of being angry at how Draco had snogged her senseless right in front of him—and whoever else was in the Great Hall, for that matter—the Heir of Slytherin actually appeared a bit amused. "You seem to have recently developed a violent tendency toward Slytherins," he said, a small smirk hovering at his lips. "Should I be concerned?"

"Only if your hair suddenly turns blond," she grumbled crossly, crossing her arms angrily.

_Whoa there, Hermione... get ahold of yourself before you kill someone!_

She snorted to herself, highly doubting that her resentment at the prat for taking advantage of her like that was going to fade anytime soon. Still, she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself down... but she couldn't help but again burst out furiously, "I mean, honestly, did you _see_ what he did?"

Tom's pleased expression faded, and Hermione immediately regretted her words as he stiffly mirrored her cross-armed stance and stared at the wall, his jaw clenched. "Yeah, I saw what he did," he eventually muttered tonelessly, darkly.

For some reason, it was as if someone had reached directly inside of her, had grasped her heart with a wrench, and had twisted. Hard. She held back a gasp, but before she could say anything, he hastily glanced over at her and quite unexpectedly took her hand. "Come on, let's go before we both get too tired for it."

_Too tired for what?_ Hermione wondered, _finally_ feeling the angry heat in her temples start to cool as he briskly set off down the same corridor in whichshe had gone after him earlier— only, this time, he made a left instead of a right. She dizzily followed his every turn and had to reluctantly admit that she was completely lost, the sporadic torchlights and classroom doorswhirring by at dangerously fast speeds.

Apparently, Tom Riddle had unlocked more secret passages, hidden rooms, and dusty corridors than the Marauders could shake a stick at.

After what seemed like only seconds, though—at least to Hermione—the Head Boy began to slow down. Hermione blinked and tried once more to identify her location.

_Voila!_ She thought victoriously as they turned another unmemorable corner, and then theunmistakable door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom came into sight. _A familiar place! _

"Aside from this year's welcoming feast, I haven't eaten in there in five and a half years," Tom said suddenly, breaking the unusual, almost eerie silence in the temporarily uninhabited hallway of classrooms.

Hermoment of self-triumph passed, and she stared up at him in disbelief. _Five and a half **years? **__Merlin, five and half years ago I was in love with Ron… and Sirius was still alive… and my parents… and Voldemort wasn't even resurrected yet— **Voldemort. **_

Her mind lingered on the extreme irony of her life. _**The man who I am willingly following to Merlin knows where right now.** _

Although, at this point, she was having a nearly impossible time associating Tom with the towering, red-eyed, inhuman Dark Lord of the future. Sure, there were occasional glimpses of darker traits that could have easily mutated into Voldemort, but here, in this altered universe, everything seemed so horribly, horribly wrong. Here, he _had_ chosen the right path… and he was dying for it.

Oh, God, it just wasn't fair!

Finally, she said quietly, "I'm sorry for you."

_For the life you've missed._

He stopped walking and faced her, his voice low. "Nefertari, don't be sorry for me."

Abruptly, he let go of her hand and turned back to the beautiful inlay of the smooth door in front of them, wonderfully preserved despite years of student yanking, slamming, and manhandling. Reaching down the neck of his robes and emerging with the glittering snake-eyed emerald and diamond-encrusted silver amulet Hermione had seen on him in the Hospital Wing, he added roughly, "It's not worth your time."

"Wait, maybe I phrased that wrong,"she said. "What I mean is, I _worry._ About Harry, Ron, Draco, Ginny, Lav. About you." She paused and frowned at him curiously, patiently leaning against the wall as she waited for him to finish whatever it was that he was doing. She gnawed her lip thoughtfully, gazing at him. _What **is** he doing?_

The tall Slytherin had walked right up to the door, but, rather than opening it, he pressed the Slytherin amulet flat on the aged wood, covering it with his palm.

At one point her in life, had she seen Tom Riddle playing with some Slytherin familyheirloom in some dark corridor, she might have been just a _tad_ bit suspicious… but she trusted him now. She did.

She trusted Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Really, it only sounded just as foreign to her now as saying 'I trust Draco Malfoy' did three years ago, she reasoned with herself, as long as she ignored the fact that she might involuntarily strangle Draco if she crossed paths with him again sometime today.

"I can't help but worry about you, sometimes, you know," she cheerfully informed him, if for no other reason than to break the silence. "You're my friend. I don't really have much of a choice in the matter."

Tom closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the door, causing some of his dark hair to plaster to his brow and more of it to messily splay away from his face, and under his breath, he muttered what sounded remotely like, "You bloody well shouldn't."

The wrench twisted again, painfully hard. "Tom—"

"_Ssssshh,"_ he quickly turned and cut her off, placing a finger on his lips, his stormy gray eyes bright and alert as he studied her again, giving her the full laser-scan look-over, digging deep into her questioning gaze.

Hermione wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for, so she simply smiled at him, an honest, genuine smile. "What, do I… do I have some raspberry-meringue custard still on my face or something?"

Tom's eyes actually snapped to focus, and, as he critically swept his gaze over her face as if he really was looking for any remnants of the Christmas dessert, Hermione realized with a start that he hadn't been staring at her like thata second ago.Yes, _now _he was looking at her on the outside, but before… it had seemed like he had been trying to read her very soul.

Eventually, he said caustically, "If you did before, I think du Lac managed to get it off for you."

Hermione's laugh at his taking her lighthearted question so seriously died in her throat, and she sighed heavily, mentally groaning. Like two little boys, they were.

"That's not fair, you know it isn't," she said tiredly. She really didn't want to get into an argument with him on Christmas, but she felt like she had to let him know what he was doing, and that it was irritating. Sighing, she forced herself to add, "And, just so you know, I think the color green suits you in every aspect _but_ this one."

Tom's eyebrows narrowed, his brooding eyes darkening. "Are you insinuating that I'm _jealous?"_

_**No,** d'you **think?**_ Hermione crossed her arms and had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes._ Men. They deny everything._ "Your words, not mine."

Vehemently, the Slytherin opened his mouth, then closed it just as quickly and shook his head, as if he had decided that it wasn't worth it. Instead, he seemed ready to throw it in and just leave her there. Wordlessly, he turned back down the hallway, tucking his chain back under his robes and shaking his head. _Great, **way** to run him off, Herm._

_Annnd this is **not** a good way to end the row._ Sighing, Hermione stepped up right behind him. Hesitantly, she lifted her arm, lowered it indecisively… and then lifted it again, placing her hand gently on his arm. "Wait… my point is, you don't _need_ to be jealous of anyone."

He stiffened, but she drew closer, stood on tiptoe so that her mouth was right up against his ear, and the words she had had so much trouble forming earlier finally came out. "Tom, I… I love _you,_ not Draco du Lac. You, and only you."

Carefully, she turned his disbelieving face toward hers and kissed him lightly, her lips lingering on his as she breathed, "And I will always love you. I promise."

"Nefertari…"

A tiny, burning flicker burst into Tom's gray eyes, and, all of a sudden, his head shot down the last inch or so to her face and roughly locked onto her mouth. He threw so much passion into his actions that Hermione subconsciously saw stars, but she didn't care; she gasped and ran her hand through his soft, thick hair.

She couldn't get enough of him, he was suddenly everywhere: Hermione was breathing him and tasting him and feeling him, and she felt like she never wanted to be anywhere else, doing nothing else but drowning herself in Tom Marvolo Riddle…

"_Nefertari, the library's on fire!"_

Startled, Hermione's heart leapt, and she jumped at least a foot, shaking her head vigorously, blinking woozily. _Wha… Fire…Fire where? … I mean, where fire…?_

"I have been shouting your name for more than a minute." Tom's voice had taken on a slightly exasperated edge. He had obviously finished giving her the laser-stare, and now he was looking at her rather impatiently, the expression in his eyes growing a bit more fatigued as he held the Slytherin Amulet to the polished wood of the Defense door. "For a second I actually thought you died standing up. I was just about to summon Lamberdeau."

_Dear **God, **I did **not** just have some perverted fantasy right out here in front of him!_

Blood rushed to her head, and to her utter dismay she felt her face start to burn. _No! It was the mistletoe! That bloody mental plant set me off! _"Erm…"

_I swear I will never live this down until the day I die._

"Erm, right." Hermione chuckled dryly at the image of Madam Lamberdeau flying, zooming down the hallways to Tom's wand, and she coughed, clearing her throat, praying that the embarrassment she was dying ofon the inside wasn't quite as obvious on the outside. "Sorry, I, erm, sort of zoned out… Where were we?"

"Outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom." Tom smirked, but the look swiftly faded into something deadly serious, an expression more solemn than any he had ever wore on his face, and when he spoke, his voice spoke volumes for the significance of the moment, whatever it was. "I was saying that I need to know if you… Christ, what am I doing?" he abruptly muttered harshly, and, in a jagged movement, he turned his back on her, roughly raking a hand through his hair.

_If I what?_ Blankly, she stared at the thin back of his well-used dark Slytherin robes, only coming eye-level with about the top of his shoulder. She hadn't the slightest idea what he was getting himself so worked up about... it was just the Defense Against the Dark Arts door!

"How well can you keep secrets, Nefertari?" he suddenly asked slowly, still facing away from her, his voice partially muffled as if he was trying to restrain himself from saying too much.

_Oh. **Ohhhhhh**._

Hermione's breath caught, and her eyebrows shot up, her heart again thudding heavily in her chest… and not just because she was standing with an exceptionally attractive Head Boy in the middle of a dimly lit, empty corridor.

_So **that's** where he was going. _

If she said that she wasn't positively burning with curiosity, she would fail a lie detector test horribly. Who wouldn't be if the Heir of Slytherin himself asked them a question like that? "Well enough that I'll carry a good many to my grave," she eventually replied softly.

_A good many…_ _like how I've destroyed you. _

_Like how I think I might love you._

Tom angled his head just slighlty so he could shrewdly glance back at her. She held her breath apprehensively, steadily meeting his piercing, soul-searching gaze, and she saw him relent in his stormy, intelligent eyes before he even turned back to the Defense door and held the Slytherin Amulet against the wood.

With one last calculating, almost anxious glance in her direction, Tom leaned his head very close to the snake charm and the door…

And, very quietly, he hissed.

The unnatural sound reverberated off the walls and echoed longer and louder than it should have in the deserted corridor. Simultaneously, the snake's miniature emerald eyes flashed, and two tiny rays of haunting, brilliant green shot like twin lasers into the darkened hall, supernaturally reflecting off the shiny silver of the knight's armor across the way, and the Defense Against the Dark Arts door swung open with a small, ghostly _creeeeek_.

Only the sight that met Hermione's eyes wasn't the interior of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Rather, she found herself gazing into the murky, shadowy gloom of what appeared to be the top of a flight of stone steps that disappeared into a hole of darkness. Her mouth fell open as if someone had attached a weight to her chin. She wasn't going to lie; Tom Riddle had just rendered her speechless, and her mind began to fumble for answers.

_But the Defense door… into a **staircase?** What?… This doesn't make any sense; nothing like this is even supposed to **be** here… This isn't in Hogwarts, A History!_

"That bothers you, I suppose," Tom said dully.

Hermione leapt about an inch and stared at him as if she was noticing for the first time how he was standing right next to her, an uncharacteristically uneasy expression in his eyes. "Well, a doorway I have walked through practically every other day during my entire school—erm, since I've been here has suddenly turned into _that."_ She jabbed a finger at the dodgy stairway. "If you don't mind, I think I'm permitted a moment of astonishment."

"No…" Tom looked surprised at her response, and, strangely, it was _he_ who sounded nervous then as he added awkwardly, probably figuring it was too late to back out, "I mean, my speaking Parseltongue."

Hermione stared at him. "Oh." _Hehe, forgot about that **tiny** little detail..._

_Alright, so I'm an idiot._

Honestly, though, she had heard Harry speak it on quite a few occasions, so it really hadn't registered in her mind the way that it probably would have registered to the ordinary wizarding folk— The _**Omigod,** he's speaking **Parseltongue,** but, like, **nobody** can speak Parseltongue except Dark wizards… **omigod,** he must be a Dark wizard…_ "Oh… I've, erm… got a friend, actually, who can do that, so… no, it doesn't."

Hermione thought that it was a pretty convincing explanation, and she wasn't lying to him at all, just... withholding the truth a bit. Tom eyes narrowed skeptically, though,and he seemed taken aback. "You do?" he asked, doubt hanging heavily in his tone.

Momentarily placing himself in his shoes, she supposed that if she told him something of that magnitude—for example, that she had come from the future— he would probably be just a tad bit dubious, so she shrugged, trying to come off as indifferently as she could, "Yeah, someone from my old school."

She purposely omitted how that someone was also currently attending her "new" school, and glanced at him nonchalantly. "I mean, haven't _you_ met anyone else who can speak Parseltongue?"

"I haven't, actually. It's…" Tom trailed off, as if searching for the proper wording, and then continued in a low voice. "Let's just say popular opinion here doesn't particularly consider it a good ability to have."

_Yeah, and that's putting it about as tactfully as you can._

And she didn't miss the bitter twist to his voice. "Erm… it'snot always so bad, where I come from," she drawled out slowly, shrugging again, trying to lift the darkening mood of the conversation. When Tom turned on her, honest-to-God disbelief scrawled all over his expression, she added lightly, "Tom, if you have it, you have it. You can't do anything about that."

A small, tired smile tugged at his lips but didn't quite make it onto his face. "That's what I thought, too." The incredulity still hovered in his eyes, but he suddenly shook his head and took a step backward onto the top stair. Immediately, a torch, previously hidden in the darkness behind him, flickered and came to life, lighting up what appeared to be a narrow, spiral staircase leading down into the depths of the castle. "Come on."

Now, sure, Hermione trusted him, but even trust had its limits, and he had most definitely just hit one of them. _You have **got** to be kidding me. _She stared at him incredulously, her tongue finally losing enough of its numbness to ask, "Down _there?" _

_And exactly where is **'there,' **anyway?_

Tom seemed to read her mind as a stray lock of hair fell into his eyes. Glancing upward and distractedly patting down some of the flyaway dark ends that he had unintentionally mussed earlier, he said impatiently, "This is entirely safe; you have my word on that."

_Uh-huh, famous last words there, buddy._

When the Head Girl raised her eyebrows at him, mentally sending him a _'Yeah, right, because anything that requires using a secret passage that isn't even mentioned in Hogwarts, A History is **entirely** safe'_ look, the Heir of Slytherin sighed. "Nefertari, if I really wanted to assault you, I wouldn't have waited until now."

_Slytherins. They just have the **brightest** way of putting things into perspective. _Hermione rolled her eyes, still avoiding his hand. "You know just how to make my night all warm and fuzzy, don't you?"

**SLAM!**

In the near distance, another door either banged shut or open, and the sound of two familiar voices, chatting animatedly, suddenly rang down the corridor, the words increasing in volume. Dumbledore and Rickter. Coming this way.

_Not good, not good, ohhh not good. _

Uncertainly, she threw a glance down the hallway and then looked back at Tom. She was going to have to make a forced, spontaneous decision.

For some reason, a memory of how she had almost gotten herself and Harry killed by centaurs in their fifth year flashed through her brain, and then one of how she had set Snape on fire during the Quiddich match in first year when it was actually Quirrell who was the problem.

Somehow, it seemed that many of her forced, spontaneous decisions managed to backfire.

Tom took another step back down the staircase to make room for her, and suddenly, a bit urgently, he held out his hand toward her. "Nefertari, _trust_ me."

The voices were steadily getting louder and louder…

_Merlin protect me._

Taking a deep breath, Hermione thrust her hand into his. She could help but wonder what on earth she was getting herself into as a small, genuine, miniature version of "The Smile" lit up his face, spreading even to his eyes. In one fluid motion, he both carefully pulled her through the doorway and, pointing his wand around her, quietly closed the door with nothing more than a casual flick of his wrist.

As if he had pressed a button, the staircase made a dull grinding noise and began to twist in a spiral. It was almost like the stairs up to the Headmaster's office, Hermione noted, except this flight quickly plunged them both downward into what once was darkness, but was now proving to be a very ancient looking stone staircase as more lit torches followed their descent, the chill rising proportionally the lower they got.

Reluctantly, Hermione had to admit it was impressive. Down, down, down they sank, chill soon giving way to frosty, wintry cold. For what it was worth, they might as well have been outside, Hermione thought, her numbing fingers fumbling to untie from around her waist the arms of the sweater Draco had given her.

Sure, he may have been the worst sort of prat imaginable at the moment, but she wasn't about to freeze because she decided to boycott his Christmas present. She quickly pulled the heavenly soft, periwinkle sweater over her _first_ sweater, thanking God for the warmth that followed, and rubbed her hands together— if anything, to distract herself from a dull, brooding fear of where he was taking her…

Although another part of her still couldn't quite believe that Tom Riddle would actually show her what was probably one of his greatest secrets.

And the only real, coherent thought still intact in her mind was, _Didn't Harry say the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets was in a bathroom?_

Her stomach immediately twisted in some fabulous aerobic display, and she fought the urge to tear herself away and run. But run, run _where?_ Up a disappearing flight of stairs? Plus the fact that Tom had not stopped watching her since she had stepped onto the lowering stairs in the first place had only heightened her intense _creeped-outness._

Choking back a strangled noise, Hermione asked, "Tom… Where are we going?"

At the sound of her voice, Tom blinked rapidly as if to shake himself from a trance, and, as the moving staircase _slooowly_ scraped to a stop, opening out into a damp, shadowy stone tunnel, he met her gaze, his expression frustratingly unreadable.

"The Chamber of Secrets," he said simply.

**A/N:** Alright, bit of a cliffie there, as I said in my author's note above, this is a VERY long chapter so I had to split it up, but luckily for you this means that my next update will be in less than a week! (AND, AS ALWAYS, YOUR REVIEWS ALWAYS MAKE MY DAY AND INSPIRE ME TO CONINTUE, of course). **Next Update: by** **October 6!**

Peace out

Lady Moonglow


	28. Have You Ever Been Kissed, Part 2

**A/N:** I want to remind you again that Hermione, Ron, Lavender, Harry, Ginny, and Draco did NOT use a Time Turner to come back in time. They used a spell, and the spell works very, _very_ differently from a Time Turner. If you have a chance, you might want to review it. I think the explanation is in Chapter 2 or 3.

Oh, and honestly, I'm beginning to think that Draco's sole purpose is to torture Tom, lol.

Thanks! Happy Reading :-)

_And the only real, coherent thought in her mind was, **Didn't Harry say the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets was in a bathroom?**_

_Her stomach immediately began to twist in some fabulous aerobic display, and she fought the urge to tear herself away and run. But run, run where? Up a disappearing flight of stairs? Plus the fact that Tom had not stopped watching her since she had stepped onto the lowering stairs in the first place had only heightened her intense creeped-out-ness. _

_Choking back a strangled noise, Hermione asked, "Tom… Where are we going?"_

_At the sound of her voice, Tom blinked rapidly as if to shake himself from a trance, and, as the moving staircase slowly scraped to a stop, opening out into a damp, shadowy stone tunnel, he met her gaze, his expression frustratingly unreadable. _

"_The Chamber of Secrets," he said simply._

**Chapter 28: Serpents, Secrets, and Snogs, Part 2**

Saturday, December 25, 1944

9:47 P.M.

_Ohhhhhh shoot._

Really, all he had done was confirm her fears, but actually _hearing_ him come right out and say it only made her head spin and her thoughts race more frantically, like a bunch of those pathetic little mice trapped in a scientific experimental maze with no evident exit, and her mind began to systematically compose a list of how thoroughly screwed she currently was.

_I am... 1. Going to the Chamber of Secrets…. 2. That is home to a lean, mean, slithery killing machine … 3. With the Heir of Slytherin himself… 4.'Trust me,' he says… **HERMIONE GRANGER, HAVE YOU GONE **COMPLETELY** MAD?**_

Tom stepped down onto the stone floor, and all Hermione could really do was follow him and hope for the best. "I assume you're familiar with it," he added apathetically, the ease of his steps in the darkness suggesting his obvious familiarity with the tunnel, "Since you so accurately described its back entrance a few months ago."

_Oh yes, I did, didn't I?_ Hermione thought faintly as Tom made a sharp left hand turn. _Imagine that… _She was vaguely aware that, despite the added sweater, she was becoming freezing cold again, and she clenched her free hand in a fist to keep it from shaking—whether from cold or dread, she honestly couldn't tell.

Tom stopped and glanced at her, but Hermione only partly noticed; she was too busy staring up at a solid wall on which the expertly carved image of two entwined serpents, both bearing an eerie likeness to the snake on Tom's Slytherin amulet, rose up like great twin waterspouts toward the tunnel ceiling, their emerald eyes glittering mystically.

She didn't even phase when the two serpents parted as the wall slid open, revealing a cavernous, extremely long, gaping chamber, lined from one end to the other with intricately carved, huge towering stone pillars, each one stretching up and up until it vanished into darkness. _Oh God, oh God, oh God, **what** am I doing here…_

"Nefertari."

Distantly, she heard Tom's voice, but it sounded muffled, like it was coming through a haze, a thick fog on the moors in which they could have been miles and miles apart and neither of them would have been able to tell exactly where the other was; all she could really hear was the heavy, fearful pounding of her own heart; the deep, rhythmic BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM that had knocked out the logic centre of her brain and was taking full control of her senses…

Suddenly, she felt a cold hand gently lift her chin, and, like a curtain was cleared from before her vision, she found Tom's swirling grey eyes staring straight into hers, his face only inches away.

"Don't be afraid of it," he said softly, but there was uncertainty floating in his expression… as if he still wasn't quite sure what to expect from her, how she would take it, and he wasn't at all ready to let his guard down until he _was_ sure.

"Something… something lives down here," Hermione found herself saying, a note of panic interjected in her tone, voicing the primary issue that was blinking like a red flag in her subconscious. _Don't say Basilisk, don't say Basilisk…._ "I saw it. A… a giant snake."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she could have cringed at how stupid and scared and childish she was acting. _Merlin, you have **fought** in a **war!** **Pull** yourself together! _

Tom's stormy gaze, though, softened considerably. "It's alright," he said, his quiet, melodious voice wonderfully comforting, somehow. When Hermione gaped at him sceptically, he added resignedly, "It only comes if it's called, and it won't be."

_Oh God, you're damn right it better not be._

Breathing slowly, carefully, deeply, she mentally talked herself into calming down. _He said he wouldn't hurt you. He hasn't yet. He loves you. Now all you can do is take his word on it. Breathe. **Breathe!**_

"Didn't it kill a girl?" she whispered, then almost kicked herself. _**Good** job, remind him of **that **right now, of all things._

Tom sighed and dropped his hand from her face. Instead, he took her hand in his, his grasp surprisingly light and careful, and, walking backward, he led her into the supernatural greenish atmosphere of the Chamber of Secrets. "I didn't know anyone was in there," he eventually murmured hollowly. "And by the time I figured it out… it was too late."

He actually sounded _remorseful_, Hermione thought in disbelief, and she narrowed her eyes, carefully searching his clouded gaze. Yes. A glint of shame actually flickered dully, far back in the deepest corner of his deep grey pools. Tom glanced back at her questioningly, but just as quickly averted his gaze and pulled himself away, stepping over to the nearest pillar and leaning his shoulder against it.

Hermione shoved her hands up the sleeves of her double sweaters to ward off the chill as he continued flatly, "Of course, I felt bad about it afterward, but I didn't feel _awful_." His voice was so toneless it sounded dead. "It happened the year after my father died. The girl just died so quickly, both of them did. It… scared me, how fast it happened, and I just assumed I had it in me, to kill naturally like that."

It was clear to Hermione, how the combined acts of speaking Parseltongue, opening the Chamber of Secrets, _and_ explaining everything to her as he did it seemed to be taking their toll on Tom, and it appeared he was loosing energy by the minute. Closing his eyes, he ducked his head and tiredly rested his forehead in his hand. "I was young, then, and I was angry. I shouldn't have even been messing with it, the snake," he whispered dully, more to himself than to her.

"But you didn't kill either of them directly. They were both accidents," Hermione said softly. "Tom, we all mess up. Maybe I haven't gone off and killed someone, but I've done things I'm not proud of. And I can't take them back—none of them. I have to live with them. But you _can't_ let your mistakes rule the rest of your life."

_Merlin, just listen to me, here I am trying to reason out a loophole to **excuse** Tom Riddle for being the only one involved in the deaths of two people. _

Hermione saw the puff of vaporized steam rise in the cold air as Tom let out a heavy breath, but the noise was lost, absorbed in the vast chamber. The Heir of Slytherin glanced up at her, his eyes no longer a blank book, but suddenly churning and filled with volumes and volumes of real emotion. Almost immediately, though, he looked away and muttered, "Either way, I'll always be a murderer."

_Oh, Tom, why are you making this so difficult?_ Hermione thought, briefly closing her eyes. She longed to tell him no, he _wasn't_ a murderer… but she couldn't. Because he _had_ killed Myrtle and his father, whether he had meant to or not. That didn't necessarily make him a murderer, but it had put him in another category, one that involved killing a human being. She knew that as well as he did, and denying it wouldn't do either of them any good.

Finally, she sighed, stepped toward him, wiggled one hand out of her sleeve, and took his limp hand in hers. "Just because you did that then doesn't mean you have to be one now."

Tom laughed mirthlessly, a sound completely devoid of the life of which it should have been full. "Nefertari, sometimes I wish I could live in your world," he said impassively. Abruptly shaking his head in apparent disgust, he again laughed listlessly and hastily turned his dark head away from hers, muttering, "Merlin, here I've gone off like an idiot, and all I meant to do was give you a bloody Christmas present…"

Now it was _Hermione's_ turn to be shocked. "A _Christmas_ present," she echoed incredulously. Of course, she had given him something this morning, but she hadn't asked him to get her anything in return, nor had she even expected it, for that matter. He hadn't exactly had much time to get her something, either, even if he wanted to… _Ah._

Suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Was _this_ what he had been doing all day that had drained him to the brink of unconsciousness when she had first found him in the hallway?

But what kind of gift would take an _entire_ day to prepare?

"Yes… Come on," he murmured, lightly pulling her close to him and striding out to the middle of the main aisle down the Chamber of Secrets. He stopped and pulled his wand out with his other hand. "Okay, just…" He deftly transferred the wand to his right hand, held it up slightly, and glanced back at her. "Just put your hand over my wand hand."

"Why?" Hermione asked, suddenly wary, unable to keep a small trace of suspicion from her tone. She came up beside him, standing behind his right shoulder, and stared critically down the length of his wand arm, trying to figure out what he was aiming for. "Can't you do it yourself?"

_After all, you **are** the Heir of Slytherin, and you **are** in Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets…_

Tom nodded faintly, the exhaustion in his movements growing. "I could, but it would turn out a lot better if you made physical contact with the spell medium, too."

Hermione saw his gaze move from her face to the designer sweater Draco had given her—it was hard to miss, with her wearing it so blatantly—and he muttered, "I suppose you can't very well call it a proper present anyway, because I need you in order to finish it, and it won't last very long, but..."

It occurred to her that he had really been beating himself up ever since Draco had kissed her. Today was definitely the lowest she had _ever_ seen the Heir of Slytherin—he had been alright _at_ dinner, but before, and now, afterward…

The thing was, around everyone else, he came off as perfectly calm, cool, collected, unconcerned - everything that Dumbledore and Harry had always said he was. Around her, however, he was almost a completely different person. He was actually much quieter, much more brooding and silent than she had originally imagined him, but he could also speak quite at length when he had something to say, he wasn't detestable like he had seemed to be in their first few meetings, and, unlike most of the Slytherin brood that she knew, Tom didn't put up airs with her.

He was real, concrete.

Sometimes, it wasn't the _best_ thing—like when he was upset, at someone, or something. Even on his worst days, though, she had never imagined that Tom Riddle would doubt _himself_ as much as she was beginning to realize he did. More than anything, that tendency of his had shocked her.

_But he's human,_ she reminded herself. _Even he has his fears, just like the rest of us._

Somehow… it made Hermione feel better about whatever they had between them, knowing he trusted her so much that he allowed her to see him at his absolute worst.

Slowly, she placed her right hand over his cold, much larger one. "Now what?"

Tom was still staring at her over his shoulder, but he quickly turned his gaze straight ahead toward a wand that strangely resembled Harry's and squinted, tilting his head a bit in appraisal. "Now move it down just a bit further… you need to be touching the wand. Right. Just like that."

Hermione sighed and took a step closer to him, finding that it was much easier—not to mention warmer— to stand and not bend her arm backward if she partially leaned against him. As she brushed up against his back, she accidentally bumped him with more force than she had intended, and she could actually feel each of his muscles go rigid.

"Sorry," she whispered apologetically.

Tom's jaw clenched, but he nodded weakly in acknowledgment. Hermione had absolutely no idea how long whatever he was doing was going to take, so she gently rested the side of her face on the rough, worn material of his robe anyway, making herself comfortable.

Slowly, almost painfully, he relaxed again, eventually closing his eyes and breathing deeply like he normally did before performing some impressive feat of magic. "Alright, now don't… don't go anywhere on me."

Hermione smiled slightly at the thought. _Right, because I'd **much** rather go chat it up with your pet Basilisk. _She had already met the monster once, she didn't particularly feel like being petrified again—or killed, even, thank you very much.

Unexpectedly, a gentle breeze flitted through the enclosed Chamber, delicately brushing at Hermione's hair, and Tom began to murmur.

Very softly, but Hermione could tell it was a chant of some sort, and she watched, her awed eyes growing larger by the second, as the raw power began to build in the air, more and more, greater and greater, until a loaded, electrical charge began to spread out around them. Whatever he was doing, she didn't know, but it was complex, _enormous_ magic, bigger than anything she had ever seen anyone else perform in her entire life… but it wasn't happening, it was just building and building like some kind of horrible suspense film.

Now Hermione could actually _feel_ the layers upon layers of magic building up around her as Tom continued whispering words that, even in the silence of the Chamber, Hermione couldn't quite hear; a loaded explosiveness rose up in front of her, near the tip of Tom's outstretched wand, hazing the view in front of them like the heat hazed long distance views on sizzling summer days—

_Oh, God, what am I **doing?**_ rationality bleated again; Hermione's heart began to thud so loudly, the beats sounded like gunshots in the empty Chamber, and, for one frantic moment, she considered yanking away, but—_damn it!_—her fingertips were sticking to Tom's wand as if they'd been super glued in place…

All of a sudden, Hermione felt rather than saw a massive tremor jolt through Tom's entire body, and a gust of wind violently whipped her long hair around her face as an explosion of brilliant, blinding light, light of all hues and textures burst from his wand and shot up into the air like a great billowing cloud.

At the blinding brightness, her eyes instinctively squeezed shut… until a strange, distantly well-known feeling of quiet peace so unlike the blast from seconds before swept over. Warily, she opened her eyes and was instantly struck stock-still, unable to trust her own sight. Tears quickly sprung to her eyes; her mouth fell open, and then closed helplessly, as she began to feel slightly faint.

_Oh my dear Lord._

"Tom…" Hermione whispered faintly, afraid to breathe, to hope, to even _believe_ that anything like this could even be possible... "What have you done?"

The Heir of Slytherin was breathing hard, as if he had just sprinted a mile in under five minutes even though he hadn't moved an inch from the spot he was standing. "It's… several restorative enchantments," he managed to wheeze, bending over and stumbling, finally sinking to his knees in exhaustion. "It's a memory, a living memory; they're a memory…"

_Almost like the Diary…._ Hermione thought dazedly. Her awestruck eyes travelled between him and the phenomenal scene before her, and she stood motionlessly, clueless as to what to do next. What Tom had done was nothing short of miraculous in her eyes, but it had drained him incredibly, and the Anima curse had probably doubled the effect on him.

Torn, her head bobbed back and forth between Tom and the glowing paradise before her. _He_ needed her help, but _they…_ they were her—

"_Go,"_ he breathed urgently, weakly pushing her forward with one hand. "It's… only temporary… won't last more that five minutes…"

Her eyes had already begun to burn horribly from unshed tears, but Hermione blinked rapidly and finally snapped into action. She took one small step on the damp stone floor, and then another, and another, except now her shoes were landing on a familiar, soft, beautifully woven Oriental rug, and then she was _running_ across the carpet, the cold air of the Chamber of Secrets quickly becoming warm and toasty.

Still not even coming _close_ to understanding how, Hermione flew into her parents' open arms.

"_Mum… Dad…"_ she mumbled thickly, suddenly engulfed in their unmistakable, combined scents of summer flowers and musky cologne, burying her head in one of their shoulders, but everything had happened so fast that whether it was her mother's or father's she wasn't sure. She stifled back a strangled sob, but then, as she felt the real, very solid arms of her parents wrapping around her and holding her like they would never let her go, Hermione completely lost it, breaking down into a torrent of tears, never _wanting_ them to let her go.

"Sweetheart," her father said tenderly, his voice full of so much love, so much of the familiarity that Hermione had convinced herself countless times over that she would never hear again, and she choked out, "Oh, _God—"_

"Sssshh, _sssshh," _soothed her mother, her gentle hands stroking Hermione's hair like she had done when Hermione was a child. "It's alright, darling, it's alright."

Hermione gasped in another shuddery breath and steadied herself, pulling back and looking at her beloved parents— in the person, so to speak— for the first time in three long years. They were standing next to the cavernous, blazing, crackling fireplace in the den of the French chateau, the beautifully decorated room exactly as she remembered it: the warm cherry walls, the simple yet classic, mahogany rubbed furniture… and Mum and Dad.

"Is this real?" she murmured weakly, feeling hot, wet drops of water continue to stream silently from her eyes and down her cheeks.

"Yes," her mother smiled, the resemblance between mother and daughter poignantly present in their thick, beautiful curls, their lovely heart-shaped faces, their bright smiles, and, now, their identical heights. "For the moment, it is."

Hermione had _longed_ with her entire soul to see them again, to hear their voices and feel their touch, but now that they were here… she had absolutely _no_ idea what to say. Where to even _begin._ "I've missed you so much," she finally whispered. Abruptly, her chin began to tremble unsteadily, and she doggedly bit back the urge start sobbing again.

"We know, darling," her mother said softly. She smiled again, pride shining in her eyes. "You've grown up so much." She tenderly brushed Hermione's cheek, and Hermione closed her eyes at the contact, waiting for someone to pinch her, to wake her up and tell her it had just been an awesome, unbelievable dream.

_Tom…Tom Marvolo Riddle… Lord Voldemort… how had he… how had he **ever** been able to recreate a scene out of her memory so perfectly, yet allow that same scene to have a completely new life of its own?_

"I don't suppose I can call you my little girl anymore…" her mother continued, her smile becoming both regretful and proud at the same time. "You're a beautiful, mature young woman with your entire life ahead of you, Hermione. You can't dwell in the past forever."

"That's him, isn't it?" her father suddenly said matter-of-factly. "The one who did all this."

Hermione looked at him, her warm brown eyes reflecting in his equally brown ones as she saw they were distant, studying something—or someone— far across the room. She turned around, her gaze traveling beyond the glow of the interior and two visible walls of the warm chateau den, into the frigid, shadowy gloom of the Chamber of Secrets, finally landing on Tom. He had dragged himself so that he could simultaneously sit and lean against a pillar, even his tall form dwarfed by the towering column of carved rock, and his body was slumped down, as if he either wasn't fully conscience or was trying to recover as much energy as he could.

_When you say 'the one who did all this,' do you mean 'the one who brought us here to be with you,' or 'the one who murdered us before we had a chance to see you grow up?'_

"Do you love him, sweetheart?"

_**Dad!**_

Point-blank, there it was. And this wasn't her _friends_ asking, this wasn't _Dumbledore_ asking, this wasn't even _her_ asking herself. This was her father, and he had asked her if she loved Tom Riddle. Tonight at dinner, she had admitted that she fancied him. Fancy, yes. Fancying was easy. One could fancy twenty thousand movie stars.

But _love?_

"Yes," Hermione said softly, a feeling of both relief and shame rushing through her as she turned back to her parents and stared at the purple and gold threaded rug. "I'm… I think I'm in love with who he is, right now. But he's done so many horrible things, he… he grew up to _kill_ you," she whispered and shook her head, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. "I don't know… I don't know if I can live with knowing that I loved the man who took the both of you away from me."

Her father studied her thoughtfully. "You're far wiser than you think, Hermione," he said ambiguously. "Make a decision, and then trust it to be the right one… _Whatever_ it is, we'll stand behind you. We always have."

Tears shining in her eyes, Hermione hovered over the decision, and then linked arms with her father and took her mother's hand. "Come here," she said, feeling a small smile spread across her face as she tugged them across the floor of the den that was really the Chamber of Secrets, walking contentedly between them. "I want you to at least meet him."

His wand was lying, discarded, on the floor beside him. Hermione couldn't help but stare at it as they approached, unable to believe how a simple piece of wood which had the potential to commit so many terrible, terrible acts could also produce something so breathtakingly beautiful.

His head was hanging toward the ground, resting on his knees, and he didn't seem to notice their presence, so Hermione said softly, "Tom."

For being as fatigued as he was, Tom's head jerked up rather quickly, surprise flashing in his eyes as he immediately stared from Hermione to her mother, and then to her father. He made a jerking motion, as if to stand quickly, and Hermione swiftly held out a hand to press him back down. "Tom, no, you don't have to—"

Before she could finish, Tom gently caught her hand in his and looked deep into her eyes. "Yes, I do," he said quietly, and, using her hand and the pillar behind her as supports, he weakly hauled himself to his feet, his willowy frame even making him taller than Hermione's father. He didn't seem to know how to introduce himself, though, and finally settled on simply saying, "I'm Tom Riddle, the Head Boy with your daughter."

"We know," her mother said kindly. Tom quickly glanced at Hermione, his stormy eyes surprised, but the best she could muster up was a weak smile of encouragement. He stood straight but stiffly, looking uneasy as the woman whom Hermione loved so dearly studied him closely.

And Hermione was shocked when tears suddenly sprang to her mother's clear blue eyes.

Unexpectedly, she reached out and hugged him tightly. He stiffened up at once, but it looked to Hermione like her mother was nearly squeezing him to death anyway. Completely and utterly bewildered, all thoughts flew from her head as, like a much-loved friend, her mother hugged the man who had unknowingly grown up to kill her and her husband yet currently loved her daughter more than magic itself could bear.

She _thought_ her mother whispered something in his ear right before she pulled away, but Hermione didn't hear anything so she dismissed it. All she _was_ sure of was that, swiftly, right as she was pulling away, Tom snapped out of his board-like stance and returned the embrace with an almost desperate urgency… and her mother smiled as she released him.

"We haven't much time left," her father noted quietly, and with those words it was as if someone had brutally ripped her heart from her chest. As if they were one person, her parents pulled Hermione to them, squeezing until she felt like there couldn't possibly be any air left in her lungs, but, nevertheless… she never, _ever_ wanted to let go.

Sweet Merlin, she wanted to freeze this moment in time forever.

"Mum, Dad… I love you so much," she whispered thickly, an incredible sense of lost, but, at the same time, a strange sense of peace settling over her as her parents finally released her. Her father was right, though… she began to notice little hazy spots in the scene before her: an unclear shimmer in the far wall of the Chateau den, a spattering of dulled color here and there.

_Please…_She suddenly prayed fervently, frantically, to everything good and holy in the world,_ Please don't go… **Again…**_

"We love you too, darling. Just be thankful for the time we had together," her mother murmured soothingly, as if reading Hermione's thoughts, "and then let us go. You can do it, love, I know you can do anything." She sounded like she was on the verge of crying, and Hermione felt tears spring to own eyes, again threatening to burst forth.

Her father, though, was absently playing with his moustache and carefully staring directly at Tom.

Abruptly, Tom seemed to notice that he was the recipient of her father's intense gaze, and he straightened himself up even more, his grey eyes steadily returning what Hermione considered to be her father's most intimidating expression.

Growing more than a bit nervous, Hermione looked between them unsettlingly, not exactly sure what her father was doing, not feeling quite reassured about it either, because her father had always been a straight-out-and-hit-you kind of man. Finally, he asked simply, "Will you keep her safe until the day you die?"

The all-too-familiar parental humiliation factor that every teenager must deal with at some point in their dating lives rushed back into Hermione at full speed, as if her parents had always been lurking somewhere in the background just waiting to embarrass her. Her face reddening, Hermione felt herself do a mortified double-take in pure, horrified shock at the blatancy of her father's question.

_What, are we suddenly getting **married?** _she thought. She couldn't help but wonder incredulously at the relevance of his words as she glanced over at Tom and saw that he had paled even more, if that was possible… but her eyes widened, all embarrassment vanishing as, very sharply, very seriously, he nodded, his jaw set tightly.

The colourful, realistic images of her parents and the interior of the chateau were beginning to fade quickly now, but Hermione's father smiled easily and held out his hand. "Son, I wish you the very best."

It was a nickname Hermione had often heard her father use on anyone younger than himself, but Tom wordlessly stared from her father's face to his hand as if her father had called him God, layers of incredulity in his eyes. Finally, he reached out to shake it… and the bright, merry, twinkling scene vanished in the blink of an eye, plunging the Chamber of Secrets back into frigid darkness and leaving nothing but Tom's still-outstretched hand in its wake.

The abrupt, frosty silence was almost deafening; and Hermione wasn't exactly sure what to say to him.

Everything, it seemed, had already been said.

"So you're him, then," she eventually said quietly, hugging her arms around herself to block out the cold as Tom slowly lowered his arm back to his side. "You're the Heir of Slytherin."

She didn't know what she had expected him to say, or do… well, alright, maybe she had taken a few fair guesses. Yes, she had pictured him smirking smugly as he owned up to it, or brandishing his power in some outlandish way, or rattling off his family line or launching off into a lecture on how great the Dark Arts really were and how she should join him at his side…

But Tom just nodded exhaustedly, bowed his head, and carefully slid back down to the floor against the pillar, resting his forehead on his knees. Probably wasn't the way he had planned to tell her, either.

Distastefully, Hermione eyed the dusty, spidery ground. Brushing her hands off on her jeans, she sat down next to him nonetheless and mirrored his position, pulling her knees to her chest and leaning her back against the pillar. "Tom… why did we have come here, to the Chamber of Secrets, for you to do those spells?" she finally murmured, staring straight ahead into the now-dark Chamber where the chateau den had twinkled and sparkled and pulsed warmth only minutes before.

She hoped that the immense guilt which was currently hanging like a dark cloud over her mentality didn't show on her expression—particularly during the first ten minutes after Tom had taken her into the Chamber, she had been dreadfully distrustful of him, had honestly feared for her life, even… and now, _especially_ after talking to her parents, she felt absolutely, _horribly_ wretched for _ever_ suspecting him of foul play.

Tom sighed and weakly sat up, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the cold stone of the pillar. "Because Salazar Slytherin specifically designed the Chamber to facilitate extremely difficult spells." He swallowed hard and took a deep breath of air before he continued. "Basically, magic is amplified here… don't ask me how he did it, because I'm still not exactly sure. And… it's the only place I can cast the enchantments I used to their full extent. I don't think they would have worked anyplace else."

"Ah." Hermione fell silent and glanced over at him. He looked so tired, she thought, reaching up without thought to smooth some stray locks of dark hair away from his face.

Almost as though she'd struck him, Tom tensed, but for some reason, this gave Hermione even more resilience to continue stroking his hair gently. It was almost humorous, how it seemed to be the sole bane of his existence, how it always ended up flying away, taunting him, much like Harry's did. The two of them really were so similar. What had happened between them in the future—it was so sad.

She sighed heavily, still gently massaging his head, and her mind wandered back to contemplate his last statement. By taking her to the Chamber of Secrets, he _had_ to have known that she wouldn't come down here without asking a ton of questions, and he must have realized that he would have to explain everything to her, from his ability to speak Parseltongue to his true Slytherin heritage.

And he must have wondered if she would think him pure evil, if she would ever speak to him again when she found out that he had been responsible for the death of Moaning Myrtle, or if she would run off and report him to Dippet or Dumbledore or the Ministry.

In other words, Tom Riddle had risked everything he had worked so hard to keep hidden away since birth, simply so he could give her a Christmas gift that he thought would be somewhat meaningful to her.

He, who had no parents, had temporarily given her back hers.

"Tom…" Hermione whispered, and he looked over at her questioningly. His eyes were weary and beginning to show the faintest signs of Anima fatigue, but Hermione couldn't stop the brightest, kindest smile she had ever given _anyone_ from lighting up her face. "That was the most _beautiful_ Christmas present I have _ever_ received."

Leaning over, she tilted her head to the right, lightly rested her finger under his chin, and gently kissed his cold cheek, her forehead, the tip of her nose brushing up the side of his face as she gratefully breathed, "Thank you so much."

Slowly, Hermione pulled away and saw that Tom had squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "Yours was just as good, you know," he murmured faintly.

_**Are you barking **mental?** Do you** not **comprehend what you have just done?**_

Hermione laughed, so emotionally drained from the evening that the sound was probably filled with a bit more amusement than the situation properly called for. "Let's not argue about it. We'll just say that they were both _really_ above average." Her mind wandered back to their conversation that morning, and she curiously asked, "Did you see anyone, then? When you looked into the Orb."

His gaze briefly landed on her, but he hastily looked back out into the Chamber of Secrets and answered simply, "Yes." A small, tired smile spread across his face, and, the exhaustion in his eyes beginning to extend to his voice, he quietly asked, "Are you ready to go?"

Hermione nodded, and her concerned brown eyes searched his worn-out gaze. "Are you?"

He nodded wearily, and she jumped to her feet, brushing off the dusty back of her trousers with one hand and offering him her other hand. He stared at it for a moment, much like he had stared at her father's, and then took it, supporting himself on the pillar as he stood, finding his balance.

A moment later, he said in a low voice, "Nefertari, I'm… I'm alright now."

Hermione let go of him so he could walk out beside her unaided, her thoughts a bit distant. She was used to seeing him ill, and tired, but watching him perform those massive spells had made her remember how truly different he would be, had the Curse not impeded him.

Or, well, maybe not _completely_ different, per say, but… if he had _that_ much power in him - and were he not dying - Hermione doubted that very few people would be able to stand in his way, even at this early age.

And he had to know that. Had the Curse not afflicted him, he might not have even been having these little insecurities, these attacks of conscience that seemed to plague him now, either.

_Don't think about what can't happen,_ she reminded herself, _He's got the Curse now and he always will. There's no way to lift it._

As she neared the foot of the Chamber where they had entered, Hermione found her feet slowing down of their own accord, and she reached out and grabbed Tom's sleeve, tugging him back. He glanced at her inquisitively, but she smiled at him momentarily and spun around, her curls flying out behind her as she did so, looking on the Chamber of Secrets for the last time.

All prejudices aside, she could feel the magic hanging in this place. It actually did have the air of a shrine, somehow, although whether it was sacred to heaven or to hell could probably be a matter of debate. "You know…" she began softly, her brow furrowed appraisingly. "If you look at it _just_ right, it really does have a beauty all of its own."

Tom stepped up beside her and briefly surveyed the Chamber, too. "If you look at it just right," he finally murmured, squeezing her hand lightly and leading her out.

To Hermione's overwhelmed mind, the journey out of the Chamber of Secrets and back to the Head Common whirled by in a blur. She _faintly_ remembered the stone snake wall closing behind them as they walked back into the dark tunnel, she _thought_ she recalled hearing the twisting, escalator-like staircase lift them back up to the Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor, and she _didn't_ remember climbing five more flights of stairs back to the portrait of Sir Cadogan.

She was only certain of one thing: of running through the scene with her parents _so_ many times, she was certain she wouldn't forget those five or so minutes until the day came that she would finally see them again. Now, in the bright light, it all seemed like some fantastic dream; had it even really happened?

"Raddiocho snapplequorks," Tom said wearily.

Sir Cadogan launched into some tedious greeting, and Hermione's mind finally began to fully function again, but—_Oh, no._

Her feet froze a foot away from the portrait hole, and Tom walked in ahead of her as she hurriedly pulled her wand from her pocket and muttered _"Horus,"_ under her breath. Immediately, a smoky, reddish haze radiated from the time of her wand and quickly formed '_10:27.'_

It had to be a miracle from God.

If Hermione sprinted like the devil himself was chasing her, she would _probably_ be able to make it up to the Room of Requirements before at least _one_ of her well-intentioned friends freaked out at her tardiness, assumed that Tom had murdered her and buried her body in the basement, and attacked the Head common room like an angered, oversized ogre.

When Tom noticed that she hadn't followed him, he turned back to her questioningly, but Hermione jabbed her thumb down the hall, taking a step backward, her mind already laying out the fastest route to the Room. "I'm not quite done with the after-hours dash yet," she explained apologetically, and wrinkled her nose as if to say, _'I don't especially feel like going, either.'_

Which she really didn't.

An _'Ohhhhhh'_ look of dawning realization briefly crossed Tom's face, and he studied her for a moment, then nodded once his understanding. "I'll see you in the morning, then?" he asked quietly, unceremoniously shrugging off his dark robes, deftly draping them neatly over his arm, and casually staring up at the ceiling as he loosened his tie.

"Surely," Hermione agreed readily. Absently sticking her wand back into her pocket, she added warmly, "Happy Christmas, Tom."

He stopped messing with his tie and stared at her, a small, hesitant smile tugging at his right lip and flickering onto his face. "Happy Christmas, Nefertari."

Hermione almost left without doing it.

A second before it would have been too late, though, she was unutterably, extraordinarily inspired. "Wait!" she exclaimed quickly, before the portrait hole could close completely.

At her near-yell, both Tom and Sir Cadogan started and froze. Sir Cadogan's mouth was partially open from babbling to himself, but Hermione could care less about him; Tom had just begun to exhaustedly turn to face the empty common room, but he looked back at her questioningly, still standing right inside the hole.

Hermione didn't hesitate, nor did she even think: she simply walked the few steps over to the entrance of the Head common. Without even stepping inside, she leaned over and took the ends of his Slytherin green tie, gently pulling them and his head down toward her own, her eyelids fluttering shut… and before what she was doing even _registered_ in her mind, the Heir of Slytherin's lips were pressing desperately against her own.

Had they suddenly appeared, not even the combined force of all five of her friends could stop Hermione from kissing back just as desperately, breathing him, faintly tasting the sweet remains of cranberry cream tarts and honeyed cordial and shared memories. As if they knew their rightful place, her arms wrapped around his neck; she parted her lips and his tongue promptly slipped inside; she moaned and practically fell over the step into the portrait hole as she completely melted into his arms, heatedly raking her fingers through the thick softness of his hair in an effort to memorize the feel of him, memorize how the heat of that moment was like none other that she had_ ever_ experienced…

Suddenly, Tom pulled from her mouth and began to kiss her softly, repeatedly. Hermione gasped, her back, her neck arching in utter_ ecstasy_ as, like a gently blowing breeze, his torturously light kisses sent shivers down her spine as he travelled along the side of her face, under her jaw, and down her neck, and it was all over far too quickly; how was it possible that something that seemed like it could go on and on forever eventually end?

Panting, breathing heavily, her right hand still partially entangled in his hair, Hermione opened her eyes, found herself staring into grey pools that currently resembled a hurricane. Tom was gasping for breath and looking down at her like he had never completely seen her until now. Hermione had never felt so safe in her life; twice, in one night: the first time in her parents arms, and now here, with Tom, his arms wrapped snugly around her back.

Nothing like this had ever felt _so _incredibly right.

_Mum, Dad… I think I've just made my decision._

"Nefertari, I…" Tom's voice caught before he could finish the sentence, and he coughed, clearing his throat. He bit his lip and seemed to reverse directions before he croaked huskily, "I've waited for that my entire life."

The torrent of emotions on his face sent a wave of similar ones through Hermione. She had never seen this much _feeling_ come out of Tom Riddle, and she hoped, she knew then without much doubt that he was no longer holding back much of anything from her.

A burst of unparalleled love swam across Hermione's vision, and she couldn't stop another contented smile from tugging at her lips as she looked up at Tom, affectionately rubbing her fingers in circles through his hair, tousling it beyond belief, but he didn't especially seem to mind. His words also triggered the very first coherent post-kiss thought that burst into Hermione's head like a brilliant sunburst.

_Why on **earth** had it never occurred to her before?_ she wondered vaguely. She planted a light kiss on his lips and gently pulled away, knowing that her friends were waiting for her; that, somehow, her life would never be the same again.

Tom abruptly caught her hands in his as she stepped backward, holding on until the last possible second. Hermione had never imagined that his eyes could actually light up, but, as she said with another warm smile, "Tom — my name's Hermione," the Heir of Slytherin's eyes lit up like she herself had flicked on a 100-watt light bulb.


	29. Have You Ever Died to Love

**A/N:** Section of chapter revised slightly to have a bit more Tom/Hermione. So... read it again, and you will discover which section ;-).

_A burst of unparalleled love swam across Hermione's vision, and she couldn't stop another contented smile from tugging at her lips as she looked up at Tom, affectionately rubbing her fingers in circles through his hair, tousling it beyond belief, but he didn't especially seem to mind. His words also triggered the very first coherent post-kiss thought that burst into Hermione's head like a brilliant sunburst. _

_**Why on earth had it never occurred to her before?** she wondered vaguely. She planted a light kiss on his lips and gently pulled away, knowing that her friends were waiting for her; that, somehow, her life would never be the same again. _

_Tom abruptly caught her hands in his as she stepped backward, holding on until the last possible second. Hermione had never imagined that his eyes could actually light up, but, as she said with another warm smile, "Tom — my name's Hermione," the Heir of Slytherin's eyes lit up like she herself had flicked on a 100-watt light bulb._

**Chapter 29: Dying to Love **

Saturday, December 25, 1944

10:47 P.M.

For a good five minutes, Hermione held a staring contest with the knob of the gloomy brown Room of Requirements door, temporarily set in the wall in front of her. On the other side of a three-inch thick slab of wood were her waiting friends, and she was sure they weren't going to greet her with a _"Oh, hello, Hermione, and how was Tom? We're so glad you **finally** decided to spend some quality time with such a wonderful boy on Christmas instead of us! No, really, we're **so** happy the two of you clicked."_

Yes, her parents' apparent approval of the whole thing had reassured Hermione that her heart was her own and she was going to follow it and it alone, and it had seemed so _easy_ to think that when she had seen her parents and when she had been with Tom.

But now, it had occurred to her that her parents and their support were gone again, Tom Riddle was going downhill awfully fast, and the five people with whom she would probably be thrown together for the rest of her life as she knew it held an indestructible grudge against the Heir of Slytherin— a grudge, she suspected, which ran far deeper than any of her abilities to convince them that he wasn't who they thought he was.

Reality sucks when it decides to creep up on you after one of the best moments of your life. It really does.

At one point, she honestly considered turning around and sprinting back to the safety of the Head common room.

She smiled hollowly as soon as the thought crossed her mind. At the start of this school year, she would have never believed that, a mere four months later, she would categorize the Head common room that she shared with Tom Riddle as "safe," versus the Room of Requirements—which had always been a bit of a haven for her and her friends—as "dangerous territory."

_Hermione, you can't hide forever!_ some rational part of her admonished.

But what would she say? Would she tell them that Tom had taken her to the Chamber? How would she ever explain to them that she loved him, _really_ loved him, despite everything Lord Voldemort had taken from her, from _all_ of them?

Of course, she would probably have to worry about those deep questions after they mentioned that little episode with the mistl—Sweet Merlin. She did not feel like facing, let alone _speaking_ _to_ Draco du Lac. Damn. She wouldn't mention it, she'd let them bring it up; that was it. And if the slimy prat even decided to speak to her, she would glare.

All right, she could do this. She had a plan. She wouldn't look at anyone, would avoid any subject related to Tom Riddle or mistletoe like the plague, and would glare, glare, glare.

It was a fairly sound plan, in her opinion.

Taking a deep breath, praying that the nervous, frantic hammering of her heart was not an ominous sign, the feeling of dread in her stomach augmenting exponentially, Hermione pushed open the gloomy brown door to a burst of conversation, which silenced as soon as Hermione quelled the urge to throw up and stepped inside the Room of Requirements.

The Room had again turned itself into a mock ski chalet, with a fire blazing merrily in the hearth, oak and cherry finishes on elaborate wooden furniture, and that same gigantic hanging pair of buck antlers completing its adornment. Lavender was sprawled across the length of a rustic sofa with her head resting on pillow that had been propped against the legs of an irritated-looking Ron, and Harry had claimed the wooden rocker, the Quiddich strategies manual Ginny had picked up for him for Christmas lying open across his lap.

"Hey, Mione," Harry finally greeted, his voiced sounding strained.

_Oh God, not a good sign, _Hermione thought, and couldn't help but glance around suspiciously at the conspicuous absence of a certain Slytherin as she fully entered the Room and pulled the door closed behind her. "Where is he?"

"Hello to you, too," she heard Ron mutter as she walked over to a padded armchair next to Harry's and sank down into it.

Harry sighed, shut the Quiddich book with a soft _thump,_ and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "Where's who?"

The Room was toasty warm, and Hermione suddenly remembered that she was wearing a double layer. With a look of distaste at Draco's Christmas present, she pulled the periwinkle blue sweater up over her head and threw it down next to a pile of sweets on a platter on the rich mahogany coffee table in front of her. "The wanker who decided to manually clean out my throat in front of the entire staff."

"Oh—he and Ginny took a run over to Hogsmeade," Harry said, apparently having no problem figuring out exactly who her colorful description had illustrated. "Du Lac knew a few stores that are open on Christmas so he could get that present for Salvi, and Gin needed some crushed hydralia rose petals for a potions project, so they went through the tunnel about an hour ago."

Another uncomfortable silence filled the room. Hermione bit her lip and drummed her fingers on her knee, the entire awkwardness of it all considerably dulling the magical moments from earlier that night. Once she had seen that Draco wasn't in the vicinity, she had thought that she would be able to survive the rest of that night after all… but no, she should have known that this situation would be bad whether Draco was there or not.

Finally, with a little ladylike grunt, Lavender broke the quiet and heaved herself up, prowling over to the mound of chocolates, sweet breads, and desserts on the coffee table. She had just begun to paw through them interestedly when Ron asked bluntly, "Why are you still going on with him, Hermione?"

Damn, there it was. Somehow, Hermione doubted that the scowling, shaggy redhead was talking about Draco. "Ron, what are you talking about?" she asked tiredly, shaking her head slightly, closing her eyes and resting her cheek in the palm of her hand.

"What am I talking about?" Ron echoed in disbelief, and he seemed astonished that Hermione didn't have the ability to read his mind. When she said nothing further, he exploded, "The bloody _Dark Lord,_ Hermione! The same one you have just spent all of Christmas night with, alone, doing Merlin knows what!_"_

_Just **tell** him that you love Tom already!_

Hermione's eyes flashed open angrily, and she fought to keep from bursting out and saying what her insides were screaming.

_No, he'll never understand! None of them will!_

"Don't be a prick, Ronald," she finally snapped waspishly, her voice tense. _Glare!_ her mind dutifully reminded her.

"Don't be a _prick?"_ Ron repeated again, leaving Hermione to wonder if there was an echo in the room, and he looked personally insulted. Hermione suddenly found it ironic that he seemed to be lecturing _her_ instead of vice-versa. "You're calling _me_ a prick? What part of 'He is the Dark Lord' do you not understand? You've gotten him where we needed him to be. You should be done with him before he's done with you—"

"No."

At the abrupt and completely unexpected interjection, Hermione felt her mouth drop open, and her eyes suddenly brightened, hoping against some crazy hope...

She swung her curly head toward her messy haired best friend, staring at him as if he had just sprouted antennas, and Harry's piercing green gaze shrewdly bore back into hers. Hermione desperately tried to read his expression, but for as well as she knew him, Harry's face was completely unreadable to her now… she could only hope that he didn't misinterpret the pleading that had to be obvious in her eyes.

Finally, Harry replaced his glasses. With one last glance at Hermione, Harry nodded slightly as if agreeing with himself, and he said slowly, as though he were thinking out every word, "I've been thinking about this. Even though Riddle's dying, he could still cause a lot of damage if you, erm, dump him, so to speak."

_Oh my God, Harry, if you say what I think you're going to say, I will never hound you about your disorganized-ness again, I swear._

Ron's mouth, which had been poised and ready to fire out a comment, suddenly snapped shut, and his wide hazel eyes on The Boy Who Lived. "Are you serious, mate?"

_I will even buy you a new broomstick each year for the rest of your functional life._

"Think about it, Ron. If you were him, wouldn't you want to kill someone if the girl you were dying to love suddenly left you?" Harry explained slowly, while Hermione simply stared at him, hardly daring to breath, anticipation shining in her eyes as he turned back to her. "Mione, I think you should keep up the act."

Hermione didn't know if Harry had just given her his permission to carry on with Tom Riddle because of the perfectly logical explanation he had just given or because he knew that something was going on between them, and, frankly, she didn't care.

A small smile broke out on her face, and her eyes screamed ten thousand grateful thank-yous. Although Harry didn't look especially happy, he smiled back and at least seemed willing to deal with the ramifications of his statement.

_Harry, I love you._

Lavender plopped back down next to a rumpled Ron, popped a chocolate into her mouth and held up a little round tart. "Raspberry cream, Hermy?"

_I swear the only reason she calls me that is because she knows I can't **stand** it._

Hermione smiled in a silly sort of desperate relief and held up her hand, suddenly hungry enough to eat an entire army of raspberry cream tarts. Lavender grinned mischievously and, with perfect aim, lobbed the tart across the coffee table. Harry flipped open his Quiddich manual and picked up reading where he had left off. Ron shook his head and summoned the entire plate of desserts over to him, shoving an entire slice of caramel apple cake into his mouth.

The world was again as it should be.

And so Hermione's entire dilemma was solved without her having to explain a single thing.

**Friday, January 7, 1945**

9:41 P.M.

An old, musty scent of ancient leather and forest wood filled the air. By now, most of the hushed, distant voices of studying students had disappeared, and the silence in the library only grew stronger as the clock steadily inched its way closer to curfew.

After discreetly peeking around her dismal surroundings to reassure herself of her seclusion far back in the rear of the library, Hermione poked her wand out of the folds of Harry's invisibility cloak. The end of it lit without her murmuring so much as a simple _"Lumos,"_ and she casually held it up as she walked along the aisle of books, squinting as she read each faded, scripted book title on the shelves.

Of course, being Head Girl, she did have free reign of the Restricted Section, but she didn't especially feel like been seen in the cult subdivision of the shadowy library quarter.

Shrouded in the blackness of the area save her lighted wand, her eyes warily moved along the shelves. Pausing, she yawned hugely, but the motion died on her lips as her eyes caught sight of a faded title stamped along the spine of what looked to be an ancient book: _Gemma Persuasio._

Cult of Gemology.

_Yes._ Smiling grimly, Hermione cautiously reached up and tugged the book from its place perched imperiously on the shelf above her. A plume of dust billowed up as it landed in her arms.

Quickly, she scrunched her nose and sucked in a breath, holding it until the urge to sneeze passed. As soon as it did, Hermione flipped open to the Table of Contents and ran her hand down the ancient Latin script until one slim finger landed upon the section on rubies. 687.

Cradling _Gemma Persuasio_ in one hand and her wand-light in another, Hermione flipped open to page 687 and began to read, her mind nimbly translating the Latin into English as she did.

_**It is rare to find a flawless ruby. Many qualities of a ruby exist that will give it a good astrological effect: it should sparkle, have a fine shape and internal brilliance, be smooth…** Blah blah blah._ Hermione quickly scanned the ancient text further_. **Each ruby has its own personality and power… If one wears an unflawed ruby… will become wealthy and have honor, prestige, and property… status in life will improve… wearer will develop a royal life…**_

_Well, at least that's true,_ Hermione thought with a wry grin, thinking about the power and prestige of the real Nefertari family. She glanced back down at the book, her eyes nearing the bottom of the page. Abruptly, she stopped.

_**In the case of the most potent rubies, the wearer will began to take on the power of the ruby itself. Perhaps one of the most famous examples of this phenomenon is the Amulet of Eras, the royal jewel of the Egyptian magical line. Egyptians argue that the ruby serves to augment their ruler's already considerable magical prowess, but many gemologists argue that it is not the line, but the Amulet of Eras itself, that holds the magical energy, and has simply bestowed this energy upon its present owner, who coincidentally happens to be the Egyptian throne…**_

Hermione stared at the paragraph in a mixture of shock and dawning realization. _Oh my God._ It was true, many wizards and witches strongly followed the dark magick gemological beliefs, but Hermione had always held what she had heard of it to be a load of rubbish… until now, perhaps.

Absently, she reached back under the invisibility cloak with her wand hand and felt for the lump to which she had become accustomed, just to make sure it was still there. So… now that _she_ was, for all means and purposes, the ruby's present owner… did that mean the Amulet of Eras was bestowing its energy upon _her?_

Was that how she was suddenly completing all sorts of magical feats with ease, from charming every single complex decoration at the Holiday Soiree to suddenly having a greater aptitude for nonverbal magic …not because she had taken on the Nefertari name— which she had actually begun to fear as the source—but because she was simply _wearing_ the Amulet of Eras?

The thought of a rock having that kind of immense power, especially over _her,_ wasn't exactly the most comforting thought, but Hermione didn't have much time before the library closed, so she plunged back into the remaining text on rubies. **_Wearing rubies is beneficial for persons in authority or trying to get into a high position… helps develop will-power and determination…._** _Errm, don't need to know that… don't need to know that… _

One line from the bottom of the page, Hermione came upon what she had originally been searching for. **_Rubies are also highly sensitive to their environment, and they have a tendency to take on heat in the presence of strong emotions. _**

She paused and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, systematically attempting to sift through the times she could recall noticing the Amulet of Eras grow hot. Once dancing with Draco— heat of the dance… Once during her huge argument with Tom after the prefect meeting—heat of anger… Once, erm… once during—

Suddenly, in the midst of the few remaining student voices coming from the main alcove of the library, a muffled _BANG! _angrily echoed nearby.

Hermione leapt half a foot in the air and instantly extinguished her wand. _Crap, crap, crap…_

The entire Restricted Section again plunged into darkness as she quickly snapped the book shut and fumbled around and found its place on the shelf, sliding it back and before she had a chance to turn the page and read the final line in the section on rubies:

_**It is said that, in the rare event a ruby begins to glow, the wearer is in grave danger.**_

Her heart beating furiously, Hermione steadied herself and tried to breathe as silently as possible. The hushed but heated conversation of two decidedly male voices became distinguishable, and she let out a slow breath of air, allowing herself to slowly relax. Now simply curious, she drew herself up and exited the Restricted Section, following the sound of voices that sounded like they were coming from an alcove in the same rather abandoned section of the library.

Deftly shedding her invisibility cloak and balling it up into an inconspicuous mass in her hand as the voices grew louder, Hermione yawned again, and her rational side took advantage of the time to make fun of herself. _Right, Mione, who'd you think it was going to be? Some Death Eater stalking you, just **waiting** to catch you off guard before he—_

The thought froze on Hermione's stream of consciousness as she turned into another wing of workstations and bookshelves, and abruptly, she found herself staring at the oddest, most unexpected sight she could remember coming upon:

Calugala Malfoy standing in the aisle with his wand outstretched belligerently, and Tom Riddle clinging to a bookshelf with one hand while his other brandished his own wand directly at Malfoy, balancing completely on his left knee while his right splayed out in front of him at an odd angle, random books littering the floor around him as if they had fallen from the shelf.

Hermione vaguely wondered if the sound of them falling from the shelves had been the culprit of the banging noise she had heard earlier.

She was almost as shocked to see Tom in the library as she was to see him and Calugala Malfoy standing at a magical stalemate. Tom's condition had rapidly and steadily deteriorated since Christmas, despite their increased physical contact and her feelings for him. When her parents had died instantly, sure, that had been absolutely terrible to deal with, but this waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for him to die, to go at any moment of any day, was positively agonizing.

An ache that had been hurting Hermione quite often now again took root in the pit of her stomach as soon as Tom's pained eyes swiftly darted from Malfoy, to her, and back to Malfoy again. The ill Slytherin had missed an inhuman amount of school since classes had restarted due to spending long hours hovering in and out of consciousness in the Hospital Wing, so whatever had happened between them on Christmas night…

Well, neither of them had mentioned it since, and she hadn't really had much time to talk to him anyway, what with him usually being asleep when she came, or the mounds of homework the professors had suddenly, sadistically heaped upon her.

Of course, that didn't mean Hermione hadn't thought about it every other minute for the past two weeks, remember exactly how he had tasted, how he had felt… but, she had reasoned with herself, it wouldn't have had much time to manifest into anything greater, anyway.

Hermione blinked rapidly and shook her head. As soon as she had appeared, their fiery conversation had faded into silence… but, almost immediately, she noticed a faint light shimmering around her neck, and she absently glanced down to see, down through the little slit at the top of her shirt, the Amulet of Eras glowing. _Great. Gemma Persuasio covered everything **except** that._

Quickly, she assessed the situation, and an nauseous sensation threatened to burst from her lips as she briefly glanced at Tom's right leg again, the broken bone above his knee obvious to her, even through his robes. She forced her gaze away and instead lowered it, cold and angry, on Calugala Malfoy, smoothly pulling her own wand. "Better get out of here before the Head Boy doubles the detention I'm giving you now."

Malfoy rotated his head and lowered his cool azure gaze on her. _"I _wouldn't do that, if I were you."

She raised an eyebrow coolly. Yes, Calugala Malfoy was dangerous, but that night in the potions room a few weeks ago had proved that she could handle him… and with Tom as a backup… "Are you _threatening_ my authority, Malfoy?" she asked frigidly.

"Heavens, no," Malfoy said, sounding insulted, and placed a hand over his heart.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was more than a little surprised when the blond Slytherin willingly lowered his wand and immediately turned his back on Tom. Instead, time seemed to momentarily stop as he stepped right up to Hermione, towering over her as he said in a hushed voice she was fairly certain Tom couldn't hear, "I'll admit it, Nefertari, I was wrong. You and the half-breed really _are_ made for each other."

She narrowed her eyes heatedly. "What is that supposed to mean?" she snapped impatiently, still steadily aiming her wand in his general direction. _One step closer and I will not hesitate to **mangle** you._

"I think you know…" He leaned close to her, so close that his stomach bumped against the end of her wand, but he didn't seemed to care. Hermione uncomfortably shuffled, inching away from him as he brought his lips right up her ear so she was able to feel his nauseatingly hot breath on her skin, and he whispered in a sort of victorious finale, "_mudblood."_

_Sweet mother of Merlin._

Instantly, Hermione jerked away as if he had just told her he was a carrier of the plague, her stomach reeling from the impact of that one little word, and huge, deafening alarm bells began going off in her head. _Oh my God, there is no **way** he can know that! If he knows, then who else—No! Worry about that later!_ _Act casual! _

"Ex_cuse_ me?" she asked rudely, briefly gaping at him with something much more than loathing in her eyes before she snapped her mouth shut and glared indifferently at him._ You can't look affected! _

Malfoy, however, simply smirked knowingly. "Oh, I think you heard me." He stepped away from her, their exchange brief, his damage done, and time started up again.

"I'll be seeing you later, Nefertari," he said in a louder, smugly conversational voice, and turned to Tom, still partly sprawled out on the floor and breathing hard. Malfoy's smirk widened as he curtly nodded down at his fellow Slytherin and then shook his head. "Somehow, I don't get the feeling I'll be seeing you later."

Tom paled a bit, but his darkening eyes made up for it, and they held a burning anger Hermione had only seen a few times before; now the Amulet of Eras was burning, burning _and_ glowing. "You have two minutes to get out of this library and go. to. hell," he ground out, his voice low, dangerous, and were he well, Hermione didn't doubt it would be _Malfoy_ who was heading off to the Hospital Wing.

The affront didn't faze Malfoy in the least, however. Rather, he seemed to be malevolently delighted, as if he had been expecting those exact words from Tom all along and had planned out his retort weeks in advance. "Oh, but my dear Riddle," he drawled innocently, contorting his face into one of mock concern, "I do believe you'll be arriving there far sooner than I will."

A wicked smile broke out across Malfoy's face as, almost immediately, what little color was left in Tom's ashen complexion drained to a ghostly white. Hermione's ears vaguely caught the comment, but she didn't exactly stop to consider the obvious implications behind it, though; she was too busy worrying about his comment to _her._

_It was just an insult. Just a name. I said he had improper breeding the last time; he got me back, s_he thought, panicking as Malfoy mockingly tipping his blond head at her, made an exaggeratedly drunken about-face, and headed off toward the main foyer of the library without a second glance back at them. _He doesn't **honestly** think that I'm a…a…_

_**Does** he?_

_**How could he?**_

Hermione didn't have much time to dwell on it. As soon as the sound of Malfoy's footsteps faded, Tom's good leg wobbled and he collapsed heavily to the ground. A little hiss of pain escaped his lips as he landed on the break above his knee, and, suddenly, the only thing Hermione could hear were his ragged breaths echoing in the hanging silence of the abandoned library wing.

Immediately, she forced the image of Calugala Malfoy's smirking face from her mind. She crossed the aisle to the small alcove he was in in less than two steps. Tom was gripping his leg, though, all color gone from his drawn face, and didn't even seem to notice her presence, so she began to levitate up the books around him and carelessly ram them back onto the shelves, her wand hand shaking slightly.

Tom's voice suddenly broke the silence, although it sounded to Hermione like gritting out each syllable was torturous for him. "Come make yourself useful, already."

Swiftly, she glanced down at him and saw that he was no longer holding his twisted, broken leg, but squinting up at her in the dim light. "What do you need me to do?" she asked softly, immediately dropping down and crouching beside him.

Tom stared at her briefly, as if appraising her, and then nodded to himself, obviously in great pain, clenching his jaw so tightly that Hermione could actually see a blood vessel throbbing in his temple. _"Cogito curatio._ Nonverbal," he said quietly, his voice weakening with each word, and he lethargically pulled one edge of his robe away, revealing a ripped, bloody pant leg.

_Oh God. _Hermione choked back another urge to be sick and placed a hand over her mouth, her heart began to thud apprehensively. _Good Merlin… but he was so advanced… what if she couldn't do it?_

She felt his gaze burn into the side of her face. "Concentrate on the spell and nothing else," he murmured softly, patiently, even though taking the time to teach her how to do the healing spell he had created and probably knew like the back of his hand must have been excruciating. "Don't focus on what you think you can and can't do."

He was incredible. She had no idea how he did it; it was as if he could look at her and read her fears. Anxiously, Hermione bit her lip, bringing her wand toward the small but clearly abnormal bulge just above his right knee where she could only assume a bone was jutting out, stopping the tip inches above the break. "Now what?" she whispered.

"Now close your eyes… take a breath… feel the magic in you. _Cogito curatio."_ Tom paused to inhale painfully, his rapid-fire breaths increasing in speed, and briefly closed his own eyes before biting out with a bit of difficulty, "Picture exactly what it's going to do."

Hermione did, closed her eyes and tried to picture his healed leg because it was a bit difficult to do with her eyes open and staring at a mess of blood. She took in a shuddery breath and steadied her nerves, adrenaline pulsing through her veins. She was a skilled witch. She was at the top of her class. Hell, she was _wearing_ the bloody _Amulet of Eras. _

_If **you** can't complete a spell that the Heir of Slytherin made up, who can? _she told herself determinedly as he added tiredly, "And then release it."

Hermione hovered for a moment, a buzzing silence growing her in mind, and then let out the breath while concentrating completely on thirteen letters: _Cogito curatio. _Instantly, she felt a warm tingle edge down the fingertips of her wand hand, and, opening her eyes, she watched in awe as a fine green glow radiated from her wand and surrounded his wounded leg.

A moment later, the glow faded, and although Tom's leg was still darkened with blood, the bulge in the pant material had caved in to nothing. So… had it worked?

"Hermione…" Distantly, she felt a hand grasp her shoulder and shake it lightly, and, no longer sounding strained and in pain, his voice said quietly, "You did it."

The Head Girl blinked her focus back to reality, and a small smile broke out across her face. "Yeah. Yeah, I did!" Her smile widened in excitement as she glanced over at him, but she sobered up just as quickly at the still-serious expression on his face. "Erm, I mean…. Does it feel alright? Does it feel like the spell worked correctly?"

"Yes," he muttered, but he suddenly sounded quite distracted, and he crossed his arms, pulling his knees up to his chest and looking off into the shadows of that rear area of the library.

Hermione sighed heavily and stuck her wand back in her pocket, the exhilaration of the moment ruined. His little swings were always a mystery to her, why his mood always changed when it did, how it did… until after the episode passed, and then she normally could look back and understand his actions quite clearly.

"Why aren't you in the Hospital Wing?" she finally asked gently, trying to sound as non-accusatory as possible. _Because I'm pretty sure Madam L is going to hunt you down when she finds out you're not in bed anymore._

Tom looked over at her, a terrifying amount of defeat in his gray eyes. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life in there," he said dully, sucking in ragged breath, still breathing hard. Listlessly, he turned his head away, and asked in a slightly strangled voice, "What do you think it's like, dying?"

Like a burst of sun out from behind a cloud, the reasons behind his sudden aloofness became much clearer to Hermione, although the question still caught her completely off guard.

She glanced at Tom quickly, concerned, but the boy was staring blankly at the spine of a random book in the shelf across the aisle, his face a mask of nothingness, his voice sharing much of the same flatness. "Do you think life's just like a tunnel… that when we reach the end, there's only blackness? Do we forget this life… who we were, what we did, who we knew?"

Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully. She didn't want to say the wrong thing... although, really, was there even a wrong thing to say? "I… I don't know," she admitted softly. And she really didn't. "I haven't really had the time to dwell on it, to be honest." _Too busy fighting to live._ She studied him carefully, then gently, compassionately touched his shoulder. "Tom, what's wrong?"

The dark-haired Slytherin feebly yanked his arm away from her, and Hermione pulled her hand back as if it had been wounded. "Nothing," he snapped brusquely, still facing the opposite bookshelf, his breathing too even, too steady, as if he was trying to control and hold back some rush of emotion, and he laughed hollowly. "No one'll care if I live or die, anyway."

Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, determinedly holding them back. "I'll care," she whispered honestly.

Listlessly, Tom snapped his head toward her, his gray eyes wide in disbelief, but just as quickly bit his lip and sharply turned away again. For a second, he hovered indecisively, and then, with an abrupt, jagged motion, he dug his fingers into a bookcase shelf behind him and looked like he was jerkily trying to stand, but he was so weak he could only pull himself a few inches off the ground.

In the end, he only succeeded in slamming against the bookcase to such an extent that several books she had just replaced jarred loose and rained down around him again before he fell to his knees, one heavy volume soundly bouncing off his shoulder on its way to the ground, but he didn't even seem to feel it.

He simply brought his hands up to cover his face and gulped in several rapid, deep, choking breaths.

Hermione realized she couldn't stop him from trying to run from his emotion before he completely lost it, probably for the first time in his life, but her heart broke for him nonetheless, and she immediately scooted next to him, hesitating for only a moment before she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

At her touch, Tom stiffened like a board and struggled against her grasp. "Dammit, g'_way," _he ground out harshly, his words muffled and garbled as they came through his hands, but Hermione stubbornly held on.

"_Stop_ it, you'll only make yourself die sooner!" she hissed fiercely. It was below the belt, but she smiled grimly as, with those words, all the fight seemed to drain from Tom's body, and he sagged wearily, not making a sound, not even moving. Very cautiously, she reached around to his freezing cold, trembling hands and gently took them in her own.

After a halfhearted resistance, Tom allowed her to pull his long fingers away from his face, and she saw, for the first time in her life, real, honest-to-God tears threatening to spill from the Heir of Slytherin's forlorn, stormy eyes. With the troubled expression of someone who had just been backed into a corner, the look he gave her then, a mix of such utter terror, humiliated shame, and desperate loneliness in the swirling gaze of one of the most powerful young wizards in the world…

She was sure it would haunt her until the day she died.

Tom's hopeless gray eyes quickly searched hers as if looking for something, _anything_ that he could hold on to, and he roughly murmured, "Hermione… I'm so _scared, _and -" he broke off and gave a short, bitter laugh, "and damn it, I shouldn't be, I'm the bloody _Heir of Slytherin, _I—_" _

His voice cracked harshly, as if finishing the sentence would only cause him more suffering than he could physically, emotionally handle at that point, and Hermione instantly tightened her embrace, her stomach twisting into a burning little ball of pity. "Even the Heir of Slytherin's allowed to be scared, love… and," she added softly, "he's allowed to cry."

He faltered, choking in a small gulp of air, groping for words. "No, that's not… Hermione — I…" Suddenly, a rush of tears pooled over and silently leaked down his thin, pale cheeks. He didn't seem to notice; instead he stared unblinkingly, hopelessly into Hermione's eyes and whispered faintly, "I don't want to forget you…"

As he lowered his gaze and roughly swiped at his eyes, Hermione helplessly felt tears begin to spill from her own eyes, crying that he, not the Dark Lord, not the Heir of Slytherin, but her _friend,_ was dying more quickly than she could have ever imagined, and there was absolutely nothing that she could do about it. "You will _always_ have me, even on that day when you're no longer here," she fiercely whispered into his soft hair, desperately placing gentle kisses along the side of his head. _"Always."_

With a pitiful, miserable little strangled noise, one huge tremor jolted through Tom's entire body, and his shoulders began to wrack with otherwise silent sobs, heaving violently with each one. Without thought, Hermione began to rhythmically run her hand through his dark hair, and she tenderly pressed her lips against his surprisingly warm, sweaty forehead.

"Don't leave me," he suddenly croaked in tortured, pleading voice that was so unlike him, and she felt all the breath knocked from her lungs as he desperately wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the crook between her shoulder and her neck. "_Oh God,_ don't leave me!"

Squeezing her aching eyes shut in pain, Hermione held the Heir of Slytherin back just as securely. "I won't," she eventually managed to choke out, reminding herself to breathe as she instintively moved her hand downward, cupping the back of his neck with her hand, holding him to her in a death grip. "I'm here, I'm right here."

He gasped in another shuddery breath and continued to cling to her like a child, like she was the only thing between him and death itself. _"Please…_ don' leave me," he repeated weakly, his voice beginning to slur.

"_Sssssssh, _I'm not going anywhere, I'm not," she soothed softly, smoothly rubbing her other hand in comforting circles over his back and sniffing unsteadily, trying to regain at least a bit of her composure. "I promise you I'll always be here."

Her hand moved up to massage his neck—Suddenly, quite literally out of nowhere, she felt his grip on her loosen, and an almost unbearably heavy mass compressed against her shoulder, as if he had slumped all of his weight against her.

Hermione would later swear that her heart stopped beating.

"Tom," she whispered tremulously, not allowing her thoughts to jump to any conclusion of what had just occurred.

Silence.

"Tom?" she repeated, more urgently now, awkwardly turning her head so she could look down and sideways at the same time, dreading what she might find...

But, no, thank Merlin, it was alright.

Inexpressible relief flooding through every pore in her body, and she breathed deeply, carefully checking over his conditions. He was still breathing, but now, from this angle, she could see that his eyes were closed as his head leaned limply against her shoulder, the blotchy skin around his eyes and a single tear still clinging to his pale cheek testaments that the Heir of Slytherin had indeed been crying.

He must have passed out. She couldn't exactly blame him, really: after than kind of intense emotional roller coaster, he had probably exhausted, especially if he wasn't used to doing it, and with the Curse on top of it...

Hermione gritted her teeth, closing her eyes and offering a silent prayer of thanks up to the mahogany ceiling of the darkened library. She hated this Curse, she _hated_ it; it was so awful, so debilitating, she thought mutely, staring back down, horrified, at Tom's inert body, her numb mind only able to command her arms to carefully prop him up.

_He's not dead yet, and that's all that matters,_ she thought roughly, a bit disturbed that such a morbid thought reassured her as much as it did. _Don't just sit here like an idiot; get moving!_

Hermione thought for a second, and then she did the same thing she had done when he had passed out in Hogsmeade: she levitated him up and out of the library to the Head dorms. This time, though, she had an invisibility cloak, which she wasted no time in putting to use by throwing it over him to avoid the understandable suspicion she would receive if anyone happened to see her strolling through the halls, an unconscious Head Boy floating beside her.

His bedroom was a pit of pitch-blackness, but, although she was still levitating Tom with her wand, Hermione impatiently, sharply muttered another lighting spell, and the lamp on his desk flickered once and came to life, casting a faint glow on one side of the room. Maneuvering him across the room and gently lowering him onto his bed, it didn't even occur to her to pause and celebrate her first deliberate wandless magic achievement.

It took her a good five minutes to carefully transfer Tom's lifeless body out of his worn school robes, his shoes, and into the bed itself. Hermione had just sank down into the plump green armchair near the side of his bed, the same one that she had sat in after she had brought him back from Hogsmeade, and closed her eyes, rubbing her throbbing temples, when a voice whispered, "Hermione?"

She jerked back to earth at the hardly audible sound, her gaze meeting two fatigued, gray eyes. "Tom, thank God," she breathed in relief, standing slightly and scraping the chair closer to his bedside, and she couldn't stop a bright little smile from lighting up her face. _Thank God._

Tom squinted at her like he was suddenly in desperate need of a pair of Harry's glasses, blinking lethargically. "Where…. Where am I?" he eventualy asked quietly, his voice hoarse and slightly slurred.

"In your own room," Hermione said gently, trying to stay upbeat and positive for his sake. "I didn't think you'd want to go back to the Hospital Wing," she added, and a dizzying wave of déjà vu from that Hogsmeade weekend - it seemed so long ago!- washed over her.

"In… in my own… ?" the Slytherin echoed faintly, looking a bit dazed and disorientated as he broke off, coughing roughly, shutting his eyes tightly again as his hands slowly, weakly moved to clutch the green sheets in his thin fingers.

The feeling that assaulted Hermione next was one she knew well but one she hated with a passion. She had felt this way several times in her life, when she had been off fighting in the war or when others she had loved - specifically, Harry and Ron - had gone off and done something reckless and dangerous -

It was fear.

She was scared, really scared, but not for herself. It was never herself she was scared for. This time, it was Tom. His condition had never been this bad, and the logical part of her mind knew that the end wouldn't be long in coming, though her emotions instantly shoved the unacceptable thought from her mind before it could stay long enough for her to sink into a depression thinking about it…

"Yeah," she murmured, and she attempted an encouragingly smile as he caught his breath and met her gaze again, desperately trying to hang onto the connection. A few beats of dead silence passed save Tom's ragged intakes of air and her steady ones. "You passed out in the library," she finally explained, simply because she didn't know what else to say.

"Oh," he said faintly, his eyes looking a bit more clear now as he blinked again and refocused his gaze on her. "I... remember... a bit."

Hermione nodded, but before she could respond, she yawned again, her face muscles screaming in protest as her mouth involuntarily stretched to its limits, and she covered her gaping mouth with a hand. "Sorry. It's not you, really."

"Merlin, if you keep doing that, I'll fall asleep for the both of us," Tom whispered suddenly, a trace of amused humor in his voice. Weakly, he shifted himself to the left, leaving a queen-sized space next to him on the king-sized, Slytherin green and silver trimmed bed, and he lifted the blanket up so the sheet was still between them. "Get up here."

Hermione felt her eyes widen to such an extent that she prayed she didn't resemble an insect, and she stared between the unbelievably comfortable-looking bed and Tom, locks of dark hair spilling into his eyes in an incredibly sexy manner that she was fairly certain was unintentional. "Well…"

_I really shouldn't… But I really want to…_

"_Ah-hhhuuuuhhhhmm…" _She suddenly yawned hugely again. A tiny, knowing smirk sprang to Tom's face, and she wrinkled her nose at him. _"Alright,_ Mr. Know-it-All." She kicked off her shoes, left her robe on his chair, and executed a little half-jump from the chair onto the soft springiness that was his bed, still in the uniform skirt and blouse.

As she settled herself into the bed, Tom rolled over on one side so he could face her, his left cheek buried in the pillow. Shoving her long, soft tresses back over her shoulders, Hermione took the edge of the blanket from him, threw it over her so that it covered both of them, and good-naturedly waved her finger at his nose. "But only for a minute."

The Heir of Slytherin smirked weakly, his voice fading even more the longer he continued to speak. "Give it time."

Her blood instantly turned cold, and with the one simple phrase everything she had been trying to deny for the past month came rushing back to her at horrifying speeds. _But that's exactly what you don't have!_ _Time!_

Suddenly, the single light in the room seemed far too bright, blinding, even, and she waved her wand at the lamp on his desk to dim it even further before sliding the slender spring of wood under the pillow nearest her head as she had often seen Tom and Harry do. "Time for what?" she fianlly asked, unhesitatingly snuggling so close to him that her head and his shared the same pillow, that she could actually feel his warm breaths blowing against her face.

"Time to see the world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wildflower," Tom whispered faintly, too weak to even lift his hand to move several stands of dark hair from his pale face. "To hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour. William Blake."

_Tom Riddle did **not** just quote a Muggle Romanticist._

"You read nonmagic poetry?" Hermione asked curiously watching her own hand slowly reach over and begin to gently trace his smooth, clearly defined cheekbone as if it had a life of its own, and she smiled as she saw some of the tension ease out of his body.

"I read everything," he tiredly replied, and gray eyes exhaustedly flickered shut as she continued to lightly run her fingers over his hollow cheek, then moved up to brush the sweaty locks out of his eyes and smooth them back along the side of his head to lay with the rest of his thick hair.

"I'm impressed," she eventually murmured with a smile, finally partly giving in to the siren-like call of sleep and reluctantly allowing her eyes to fall shut.

"Thanks," the Slytherin whispered, though whether for her compliment or her touch, Hermione didn't know. She did know, however, that athough his chest was rising and falling much more rapidly than it had been a few moments before, he made no attempt to remove her hand.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly. The answer abviously wasn't going to be 'just peachy,' but in all honestly, Hermione just wanted to keep him talking for as long as possible. She wasn't sure why, but a cloud of utter foreboding was hanging over her head. It was completely unfounded, she knew, but somehow... she felt like she might never get another chance.

"Tired," Tom answered in an honest murmur, and in a movement so subtle she hardly noticed that he had even moved, he wrapped his arm around her back like it was the most natural thing in the world and weakly, gently pulled her closer to him.

It was the strangest sensation, as if she was actually being perfectly molded against his body, and her heart jumped in surprise as she felt a soft kiss being pressed between her uniform top and against her collarbone. Just as quickly, the comforting presence retreated slighty, and Hermione opened her eyes to find her warm forehead flush against Tom's eerily cold one, her eyes mere inches from his now-closed ones... her mouth mere inches from his.

Desperately biting down her lip before her raging emotions took full control of her actions, she smiled affectionately and permanently rested her hand lightly on the side of his head that was not against his pillow, needily tangling her fingers in his hair. "Me too," she finally managed to choke out, unable to tear her gaze from his half-conscious face.

"I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't transferred here this year," he suddenly breathed drowsily, sounding like an exhausted five-year-old who desperately wanted to stay up for the rest of the party but had to be carried, half-asleep and protesting halfheartedly, to bed by his parents.

Hermione felt his thumb began to gently, rhythmically stroke the small of her back, and she instantly shivered at the amazing feeling that was his touch, yet she felt the blood drain from her face. _You wouldn't die, for starters. And then I know exactly what you'd have gone on to do. _

_Kill everyone._

Oh God, she couldn't do this, she couldn't be in the same bed with him, so couldn't be so _close_ to him with her entire body feeling as if it were electrified every time his fingers brushed against her skin... Luckily, her fatigue numbed the sensations slightly, and she really didn't want to leave him, not when he was this sick.

Anyway, it wasn't as if anything was going to happen.

Quickly, trying to sound as lighthearted as she possibly could, she whispered brightly, "So, are you going to go back to my dear Uncle Al, who was responsible for my coming here in the first place, and tell him, 'Oh, I'm so _sorry_ for _ever_ being offensive or not paying attention in class, thank you _so_ much—' _"_

_"Stooop,"_ Tom slurred tiredly, his eyes opening a crack as he listlessly lifted his free hand a placed a finger over her lips. "The image is disturbing enough without the dialog..." As his hand limply fell back to the bed, though, he added in a voice so quiet she barely caught his words, "But… I might think it." He closed his eyes again, struggling to swallow. "I might think it," he repeated faintly.

Whether she was meant to hear it or not, Hermione's heart swelled, and the toasty warmness she felt there spread throughout her entire body. Oh sweet goodness.. how had she gotten on without him for seventeen years? "Oh, you're sosweet... Oh God, I think we're having a tender moment," she muttered sleepily, moving her left hand down from his face and carefully draping her arm over his gently rising and falling side.

"Merlin help us, you'd better leave," he mumbled into the pillow, his breaths already beginning to steady and even out, and it sounded like he was on the threshold betweem unconsciousness, amusement... and something more.

"Yeah." Hermione smiled tiredly, happy that they _had_ found something to smile about in the closing darkness. She somehow mustered up the strength to reopen her eyes, and she didn't even have to reach to affectionately kiss the tip of his cold nose. "I'll run."

Even on the verge of sleep, pale moonlight flickering in through the floor-to-ceiling west windows due to the absense of blinds he had for weeks failed to close because he had been in the Hospital Wing, Hermione saw the smallest of smiles brighten the Heir of Slytherin's ashen face as he wearily murmured, "Shut the door on your way out."

_Know-it-all prat,_ she thought fondly, snuggling even more into his warm embrace. She could not recall a time when she had ever been so physically close to a man like this, yet she couldn't imagine her very platonic 'first time' being anything more incredible that that very moment. Tom wasn't pressuring her for more, he wasn't forcing her to do things she wasn't comfortable with, he was just... being in time with her, for however long time had left to give him.

_God, I love him,_ was the last thought that floated through Hermione's mind before she willingly succumbed the blissful darkness that was calling her name.

**Saturday, January 8, 1945**

7:43 A.M.

A strangely familiar, heavy, musty, earthy smell filled the air. She was cold, terribly cold, which was strange considering that she was covered with a three-inch thick Slytherin green coverlet. Shaky and more weak than she had ever felt before, even worse than when she had caught the flu the summer of her third year, and scared beyond recognition—Suddenly, cold, dark walls began to close around her…

Hermione let out a throaty choke, and her entire body jerked as her eyes flew open, her chest heaving, her heart hammering as her eyes wildly darted, trying to identify her surroundings in the muted light. Green… green everywhere, all around… where _was_ she?

_In his bedroom, you moron. Relax, it was just a dream._

_Yeah, dream, more like a nightmare._

Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Hermione yawned and sleepily turned her head in the pillow, glancing to her right. Rumpled silver sheets and an abandoned, forest green pillow were all that greeted her.

Tom wasn't there.

Hermione groaned and rolled over in the bed, becoming tangled in the blanket as she checked the hands of his clock, perched on a bed stand all the way on the other side of the gigantic mattress. A pair of dull gray hands pointed to a seven and a forty-four. Merlin, where on earth had he gone this early?

Suddenly, something large, thin, and antiquated yellow appeared before her fuzzy vision.

Blinking woozily, cobwebs still strung across her brain, Hermione sat up and plucked the folded but full-sized sheet of parchment from the air, staring at it warily. It was Tom's type of parchment, but he had never written her anything nearly this long before.

Cautiously running a finger down the edge, she opened it and a shiny silver pendant slipped out, landing on her lap. Confused, Hermione fumbled around, managed to wrap her fingers around the chain and lifted it up in front of her face. Tiredly, she squinted at the pendant as best she could, considering the time of morning.

And found a pair of tiny, emerald, glittering eyes coldly gazing back at her.

Her breath hitched.

Tom's Slytherin amulet.

But why… why on earth had he given it to her?

Confusion rapidly giving way to worry, Hermione snatched the note back up and exasperatedly pulled her wand from her back pocket, pointing it at the parchment. With a flick of her wrist, a small pearl of sparkling light appeared over the letter, hovering, illuminating the hand-scrawled words.

Yes, the writing was unmistakably Tom's as well, but it was _different,_ somehow…

It was wobbly, Hermione realized in concern, as she looked at the first few words without really reading them, but then the mist fogging her mind cleared and she _did_ read them, scanning the lines quickly, her alarm amplifying exponentially with each word.

_**My dearest Hermione,**_

_**I will begin with the curse. Anima Adflictatio. I know you know about it; you have for several weeks now, or at least a month, so I see no need in describing it to you— the day you stopped incessantly asking me about my condition was around the time you must have found out. **_

_**One of the reasons I'm writing this is because I don't want you to feel guilty that you haven't done enough for me while I was sick, because you have. There had never been anything like you in this world for me, and here I've given you practically nothing in return. So I want you to keep the Slytherin crest. Don't try to use it to come back to the Chamber—it isn't a safe place for anyone but someone of Slytherin descent, and it's not a place where I want you to be, either. **_

_**And it's also why I've enchanted this letter to appear after I have died. **_

Horrified, Hermione jerked the letter away, then brought it back to her face and re-read the last line to make sure her eyes weren't playing some sick joke on her mind.

_**And it's also why I've enchanted this letter to appear after I have died.**_

That… that was _impossible_… Tom… She had been with him the entire night, and he had been okay! There… there had to be some mistake! Blinking back a disbelieving, dizzying wave of emotion and dread, Hermione picked up where she had left off.

_**Maybe thirty, forty, fifty years from now, even, when you've retired from being ridiculously successful at whatever you've decided to do, with children, with grandchildren, with all the happiness someone like you deserves to have… maybe you'll pull the crest out of some forgotten drawer where you left it decades earlier. And maybe you'll remember, for the briefest of moments, Salazar Slytherin's last heir— nothing more than a seventeen year old boy who allowed himself to be overrun by a curse, simply because he fancied a girl. **_

She choked back a humorless, miserable chuckle at how he had so brutally to-the-point summed up the past two months, beginning to have a ghastly idea of where this was going… and she didn't want to get there. But she couldn't bring herself to tear her eyes from the scripted words.

**_And, lest you look back on him as the most complete idiot you have ever had the misfortune of meeting _**—Hermione couldn't help but laugh tremulously at that— **_allow me to assure you that he was well aware of what he was doing. He had always known what the curse could do to him, and so he had decided that solitude and hate were better than love, because solitude and hate kept him alive, and they were all he had ever known. _**

**_But then she came along, and everything changed. Not only was she intelligent, beautiful, and hardly afraid of anyone or anything, she didn't judge him by his blood or the wretched place he came from. She talked to him, listened to him, argued with him, she made him smile. She made him want to become a better person. Suddenly, he had someone, and she wasn't just someone, she was everyone, and she was all he had ever had. Ever. And he realized that one minute, one second with her was worth more than an entire lifetime without her. _**

A veil of tears suddenly blurred her vision, and she blinked rapidly, covering her mouth and biting her lip to keep her chin from quivering, from breaking down completely, hating herself so much... hating herself - _She_ had brought this on him! She had... she had...

**_By now his rather pathetic story has probably bored you quite successfully, I expect, so I'll leave you with only one regret—his main regret, really: That he hadn't the chance to tell her something he had never told anyone else before, because he never had anyone to tell it to. _**

_**But it's something he's wanted say to her from the moment the curse moved into Irreversible. **_

With the utmost dread, she read the last line, and she immediately closed her eyes in agony and turned her head away from the words, praying that this was all some sort of awful, awful nightmare.

_**Hermione, I love you. **_

The letter fell from her cold, limp fingers and hit the ground with a soft, whooshing brush before her perusing eyes even reached the conclusion: three simple letters.

_**Tom**_

Tears were streaming from her eyes, and that horrible ache had begun eating away at the pit of her stomach, but she didn't even realize it.

_No. _

_No!_

This wasn't happening. It wasn't real. It was a lie, it was all a lie. He wasn't going to die; she wouldn't _let_ him. _Damn_ his stupid enchantment to hell, _he was not dead! _

Thankfully, her rational side chose that moment to kick in and took control before her panicking emotions could send her into hyperventilation. _The only way you can help him is if you breathe. **Breathe!**_ it instructed harshly, and Hermione did, gasping in great gulps of air while attempting to calm her panicking mind. _Alright, now think this through:_ _Why did he enchant the letter **after** he had died?_

_To stop teachers from finding him, trying to help him, and prolonging the pain,_ Hermione automatically answered herself. _**… or** to make sure I didn't come looking for him._ Was that it? Had he been afraid she would have tried to get to him before he had died, seen more than she should have to see?

_Well, he had been right, I would have—**No,**_ she corrected stubbornly, _I** will.**_ She was going to see him again. There was no doubt in her mind.

_**So where had he gone?**_

Obviously not the Hospital Wing. Hermione had come to the conclusion that he hated that place just as much as he hated the orphanage. Ignoring the blatant, horrible truth glaring off the paper in front of her, Hermione gulped in a another breath and snatched up the letter, forcing herself to systematically look back over the second paragraph. _You've done enough… keep the Crest… don't come back to the Chamber._

_Don't come back to the Chamber._

For some reason, the line struck her as significant, and she stared at it for a moment swiftly continuing reading, the beginnings of a theory starting to form in her mind. _Not safe… not a place I want you to be… and it's why I've enchanted this letter. _

Yes.

That was it,it had to be. He had gone to the Chamber of Secrets. And it made complete sense, she thought, nodding to herself in reassurance as she snatched up the invisibility cloak off the back of the chair, and jammed both the letter and amulet deep into a pocket. What better place for the Heir of Slytherin to go to his resting place? Anyway, it was the only lead she had, and Hermione clung to it desperately.

Without pausing to think of what she could possibly do for him considering that he had already died, Hermione leapt to her feet and ran like a bat out of hell itself, bounding down the flight of stairs to the Head common room. Only one thought filled her mind:

_**Get to Tom. **_

**7:59 A.M.**

And the only way she was _going_ to get to Tom was if she found the only other person in Hogwarts who spoke Parseltongue and had him open the Defense Against the Dark Arts entrance to the Chamber if Secrets—or the bathroom entrance, or whatever entrance, she didn't care.

She just needed Harry, and she needed him_ now!_

Which is why the Head Girl found herself flying into the cold, gaping abyss of a Slytherin common room, wheezing for breath. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she rested her hands on her knees, dangling her head toward the ground as the Common Room wall entrance closed behind her, thanking everything holy that the Head Boy and Girl were privy to every House's password.

_Get up! You don't have much time!_

Quickly reassuring herself that the lightheadedness was gone and she wouldn't pass out on the Slytherin floor, Hermione sucked in a deep, steady breath and lifted her head, anticipating a hoard of Slytherin students staring at her, one of them preferably being Harry. Or Ginny or Draco, she would take anyone who could point her in the right direction… and she froze in horror.

_Oh God, no. _

The bloody common room was completely abandoned. And, as there were no staircases to distinguish or even indicate the location of one sleeping area from another, she had absolutely no idea where the entrances to the dorms were.

Desperately, Hermione contemplated throwing her hands up and screaming bloody murder in the hope that at least _one_ student would hear her, would come down to see what was wrong, and could then show her the way to the Seventh Year boys' dorms. Then again, that one student would probably be Calugala Malfoy, or, even worse, Calugala Malfoy plus his band of Crabbes, Goyles, Lestranges, and Blacks.

She blew out an aggravated stream of air, a lock of curly hair gusting up out of her face and over her head. Yes, it was the weekend, and yes, it was early, but it wasn't _that_ early! _Stupid… blasted…no good, lazy Slytherins— _

"_Damn_ it!" Hermione shouted furiously, frustratedly kicking the leg of the couch beside her, but just as quickly winced at her stupidity and hopped around as a spike of pain pulsed up her foot. But no, she wasn't giving up, not yet…this was a huge common room… Surely _someone_ was in there _somewhere!_

Refusing to let it go, she frantically dashed around the dungeon-like cavern of a common room, irrationally checking on top of, under, over, behind partially-obscured couches, oversized chairs, nooks, crannies, tucks under staircases. A part of her dully began to accept defeat, but she couldn't stop searching, her mind on a crazy overdrive as if she had lost control of it completely, until she had circled the entire Slytherin common room.

No, the only signs of life were the dying embers of the black, yawning, furnace-like fireplace next to which she was currently standing.

Hermione had never hated the House of Snakes as much as she did then.

In that moment of absolute hopelessness, she finally allowed herself to open up to the ugly truth. _You are ridiculous,_ that same, rational part of her scorned cruelly. _Ignoring the facts won't change them, you know that. It Tom Riddle said he enchanted a letter to appear after he had died, then it appeared after he died. _

The exhaustion of running clear across the castle from the Head dorms to the Slytherin common room suddenly slammed into her like a ton of bricks, she dropped the balled-up invisibility cloak on the ground and dejectedly sank down on the still armchair nearest the hearth, absorbing what little heat it was still giving off, rubbing her temples, no longer fighting back tears.

_And yet you've just wasted half your energy running around harboring the mad idea that you could somehow… What? Bring him back to life? No one has that power! You couldn't even do that for your **parents!**_

She couldn't find Harry.

She couldn't get into the Chamber of Secrets.

Tom was dead.

And all she could hear was his voice, his weak, forlorn voice pleading over and over again, _Don't leave me, oh **God,** don't leave me…._

The tears began to flow freely now, not so much burning, but more a constant, cool flow, and she stared without blinking into the glowing red and black coals. Her entire body felt numb, void, dead, the same horrible lack of sensation that she had experienced three years ago when she had discovered her parents dead.

_This is my fault, this is all my fault…_

In her original scheming to ruin _his_ life, she had, in the long run, inadvertently ruined hers, too. Just when she had found someone with whom she could move on, someone with whom she was truly happy, and someone who had been truly happy with her as well… he was gone.

Every person she had ever loved as something much, much more than a good friend… they had died. She identified with Harry more than he knew. Would it ever end?

_Why me, God? _she screamed fiercely, bitterly, and, were the am in the room, she probably would have shook her fist at him. _What did I do to deserve losing them all? What did all of us do to deserve sacrificing our life to travel back in time in the first place? **Why** did I have to live in a war, and **why** did my best friend happen to be the sole person the Dark Lord was after? **Why does this always have to happen to me?**_

The silent minutes agonizingly ticked by, but time held no meaning for her anymore.

Wallowing in her own-self pity, Hermione's vacant gaze was eventually, absently drawn to a rather large pile of chunky ash near the far right corner of what had once been part of the fire—in particular, a rather large, sharply triangular remain, one that strangely reminded her of the corner of a book cover.

Suspiciously, Hermione sniffed once, swiped a hand across her wet cheeks, and narrowed her eyes, disgust replacing some of her emotional impassiveness. _Sacrilege! Book burning Slytherins, if that doesn't just put the cherry on top of my perfect day, _she thought sarcastically. She was tempted to launch off into another round of _Oh woe is me_, but, for some reason, she stopped.

It was funny in an ironic way, almost, how the strangest, most random things could upset her in a moment when she really should have been solely focused on one of the worst things that had ever happened to her in her life.

Curious about what some Slytherin had been so intent to destroy, Hermione limply held out her wand and deadpanned, _"Accio."_

Immediately, what remained of whatever had been burned shot from the fire, tiny, ashy specks flying out behind it. Inches from her face, she stopped the charred, faded, curled-around-the-edges section of black book binding and squinted through a veil of fresh tears as she read what was left of what she assumed was the title, glossed with glittering red letters:

-lèges Tragiques.

French. _–lèges Tragiques. _Why did that sound familiar to her?

"_**Hermy,"** Lavender insisted stubbornly. Her voice rose to a whine as she urgently jabbed a slender, manicured fingernail at her French book's unmistakable, almost blood-red writing. "I think this might be important!"_

The memory slammed back into Hermione's mind for the first time in practically a month. Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques. That's what the full title had been, she recalled clearly, sitting up straight and leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she interestedly examined the thin remnant, her tears instantly drying on her cheeks. A Killer Love and Other Once Tragic Enchantments.

And, suddenly, Lavender's insistent whining made complete sense.

'_A Killer Love.'_ Obviously, that part of the title could have been referring to the Anima Curse, she thought, her heart beginning to hammer in anticipation, like the way one gets when she doesn't yet understand the full significance of something, but still knows that it _is_ important.

But… _once_ tragic? Did that mean to imply that… it wasn't tragic anymore? But how… how could it _not_ be tragic, unless…

_Unless the book had held a cure._

Hermione gaped at the glaring pile of ash in the fireplace in absolute horror, stunned realization dawning on her face.

_**Holy bloody hell.**_

**A/N:** Ummm… what am I forgetting… Oh! As always, do read and review, your thoughts and comments are appreciated! I really do love to read each of them, and my review responses will be up tomorrow afternoon, so come back if you missed them tonight! Thank you for being so patient with me. The only humanly possible way I would be able to update sooner than that is if my life revolves around fanfiction, which it doesn't.

Much love-

Peace out

Lady Moonglow


	30. Have You Ever Saved A Life

**A/N:** I don't even think I can say, again, how much I've appreciated your positive support and reviews! I do read every single one of your reviews, many of themwere absolutely beautiful, and some of you have talked to me several times, even wishing me happy holidays! Truly, you've been wonderful, and I thank you so much for your patience and understanding, so…. THANK YOU : - )

Oh, and in case anyone's curious as to how I've always thought of Tom while I've been writing him... I've never really imagined him as the Christian Coulson version of him. I've always sort of pictured him as a young Clive Owen, with all the attitude, cynicism, snarkiness, guardedness, and impenetrable stares that come with him. Just so you know. Lol.

So… here is the next chapter… in which Hermione finds out that saving a life is not as easy a thing to do as people say it is…

_**'A Killer Love.'** Obviously, that part of the title could have been referring to the Amina Curse, she thought, her heart beginning to hammer in anticipation, like the way one gets when she doesn't yet understand the full significance of something, but still knows that it is important. _

_But… once tragic? Did that mean to imply that… it wasn't tragic anymore? But how… how could it **not** be tragic, unless… _

_Unless the book had held a cure. _

_Hermione gaped at the glaring pile of ash in the fireplace in absolute horror, stunned realization dawning on her face. _

**_Holy bloody hell._**

**Chapter 30: The Only Option Left**

Saturday, January 8, 1945

8:10 A.M.

_There is a cure._ The words repeated like a mantra in Hermione's throbbing, overwhelmed mind. _There is a cure, there is a cure, **there **is** a cure! …**_

And then she wanted to absolutely scream in frustration, _But it's too bloody late!_

… _Wasn't _it?

_Alright, calm down and think logically, Hermione, you're not going to be of any help to anyone if you just sit here and panic. _Almost shouting the words in her mind to calm herself down, she clenched her hands, which had, she vaguely realized, begun to shake from sheer nerves. With a sudden surge of energy, she leapt to her feet and began to rapidly pace back and forth in front of the fading flames.

_Think. **Think!** _

_Alright, you have a book with a possible cure. The only problem is that said book is currently burned to a crisp. You know that Tom is in the Chamber of Secrets. The only problem there is that you can assume he died when you received the letter. _At the thought, she fought back a sickening wave of nausea and forced herself to continue the analysis.

_**What options does that leave you?**_

Silence built in the deserted Slytherin common room until the point of suffocation, the fire having died down to such an extent that even the hot coals no longer crackled, although at one point Hermione thought she heard some scuffling movement and loud, muffled chatter from within the walls, where she supposed the dormitories were—

_Go back._

The brilliant idea slammed into Hermione like a ton of bricks. She abruptly froze in place, overwhelming excitement and desperate hope instantly rising inside her like an elated bubble. _Go back and catch the book before it begins to burn!_

It didn't occur to her that catching the book before it started to burn would most likely involve running dead into the person who initially burned it.

All she could think of was that she was not going to let Tom die just like that, without a fight, in a simple command to exit stage left. That was exactly how her parents had left her, and she would be damned, _damned_ if she was going to let him go out in the same way. The only way she would be able to save his life, though, was if she changed time, that much was obvious, and change it in a major way.

But wasn't she changing time already just by being here, in 1944?

Still, she didn't have a time turner, she realized miserably, and she had no idea where they were kept in this time period.

The bubble burst and her heart sunk in bitter disappointment.

Roughly shaking her head, she impatiently piled her wild morning hair into a messy bun and resumed her frantic pacing, her momentarily relieved heart speeding up again to match the frenetic pace.

What she wouldn't give for a normal life, if only for a day—a life where she could unworriedly take a long walk and simply think about nothing at all, go sit off the lake and watch the waves lap at the shore without a care on earth, kick back and enjoy an old Muggle film with her friends, or—dare she even wish it?— be able to talk with Tom, hug Tom, _kiss_ Tom in front of everyone in a world where nobody would think twice, where he would just be Tom, and she would just be Hermione, and they would just be together, just like two completely normal people who liked each other very, very much.

But she didn't have a normal life; in fact, she probably had one of the farthest things from it—a life with more accountability, responsibility than any eighteen year old should theoretically have.

_Oh **God,** what am I going to do?_

Utter despair began to creep like a shadow into her mentality again, morosely repeating everything it had already: Tom had already died—at least a half hour ago—and not a single spell existed that could bring something back from the dead; there had been a cure all along, but she had been too preoccupied, too stubborn, too _stupid_ to take Lavender seriously; the only option she had come up with thus far, a time turner, was no longer an opt—_Wait._

Wait.

A beat passed, and Hermione's pace lessened to a mere crawl, and then she stopped walking altogether. Absently resting her chin on her fisted hand, she gazed decisively into the shimmering red and black coals, unhurriedly tapping a foot on the ground.

Maybe she did have another option.

She had never considered it before because the only time she'd ever seen it performed, it had looked like it had taken practically everything out of Dumbledore to complete, and Dumbledore was, well, Dumbledore: the most incredible, powerful wizard she had ever met and probably would ever meet. And if the spell had drained _him_ like it had, then how could she even hope to finish it?

The no-no attitude quickly swooped in again with a vengeance, and it spat out, almost scornfully, _Hermione, have you gone completely mad? My God, think logically! This isn't some little professional party decoration charm you'll be playing with,_ _this is highly, highly advanced and highly volatile magic; Dumbledore himself had said it was nearly impossible; that's why hardly anyone's dared to even attempt it! Do you honestly think **you** can do any bett— _

_Damn it,** no!**_ She was far _past_ the point of thinking logically, and lifting her chin, straightening her shoulders, she obstinately whipped out her wand. _Love can make you do crazy things, sweetheart._ With her father's words of wisdom ringing in deaf ears, she furiously shoved the overpowering waves of negativity from her mentality.

_No, don't you **dare** tell me that this is impossible, because I will **not** accept no for an answer!_

And Hermione did the only thing that her stubborn, numbed mind was at the moment capable of doing. She made a forced, spontaneous decision, even though she was well aware of how horribly awry her forced, spontaneous decisions usually went. This was the only other option she had, and she was bloody well going to take it, even if it killed her, and, if it didn't, even if her friends killed her for what she was about to attempt.

Without even pausing to consider that fewer than fifteen witches and wizards had been able to complete the enchantment in a thousand years, or how many ways the spell could go terribly wrong if performed even slightly incorrectly, or the very, very low likelihood that she would even be able to pin the enchantment to take her exactly as far back as she wanted, she began to work through the hand motions Dumbledore had performed so many months ago, when he wasn't yet her uncle, but simply her headmaster, reciting the Latin like a chant in her now one-track mind.

She suddenly recalled Tom's smooth, patient voice, as he had instructed her in the healing spell last night, '_Concentrate on the spell and nothing else… Don't focus on what you think you can and can't do...'_

Hermione could have burst into tears at the overwhelming wave of comfort that simply remembering his voice could provide, with its calming undertones and mild Irish intonations. Somehow, _some way,_ she was going to get to that book before it burst into flames. She flat-out refused to lose another person she loved if there was _some_ possibility, no matter how remote or mad it seemed, that he could still be saved.

'_Now close your eyes… take a breath…' _

The brunette stood rigidly, inhaling slowly, rhythmically, attempting to at least slow her pounding heart and clear her mind, completely clear her mind except for one thing. **_I can do this._**

'_Feel the magic in you…' _

All her senses seemed to be amplified until her entire body was on electrified edge. She could feel the Amulet of Eras pulsing against her neck, except this time it was she who was releasing the increasingly intensifying emotions;

'_Picture exactly what it's going to do…' _

Hermione thought about nothing save catching that little black book before it started to burn…

And she realized that if she wasn't ready now, she was certainly never going to much more ready again. Letting out her breath in a sudden, jumbly rush, her chest tightening in involuntarily dread, she smoothly turned her wand on herself so that it pointed directly at her heart and clearly bellowed, _"IMPARTUS INFINITIVUM!"_

With a rumbling noise akin to a small roar, Hermione imploded into a tiny, shimmering speck of light and vanished into thin air.

**Saturday, January 8, 1945**

**7:10 A.M.**

"So do you want to grab breakfast now, or afterward?" Ginny called as a raucous group of seventh years loudly exited the Slytherin common room. She was attempting to shove a large cloak into a small book bag that she had set upon a waist-high, sturdy ebony study table poised across from the exit foyer.

Draco yawned hugely as he strolled over to the redhead from across the common room, a brightly crackling fire vibrantly illuminated behind him. "Now," he answered easily. "I'm starving." Distractedly, he ruffled a hand through his silky platinum locks (they of course fell right back into place as if they'd never even been disturbed) and shifted his own stuffed book bag, slung over one shoulder. "More than that, I might lose my impassioned inspiration halfway through if I don't."

She snorted. "Right, 'impassioned inspiration' my arse, just wait… one…second!" With a final push, she managed to push the cloak into the dark bag, and she snapped it shut, tossing a cascade of flaming auburn tresses behind her. "There. Alright, I second the breakfast proposal."

"I saw that one coming a Quiddich pitch away. Everyone knows you can't resist free food, _Weaslette."_

"I simply know how to find the best deals, _ferret," _Ginny retorted with a charming smile, though fought fire with fire by grinding out the last word for the age-old insult it was. Draco gave her an extremely dirty look as she tossed the strap of the bag over her head so it was slung across her chest, and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, grow up, will you?"

Draco smirked, as if he had been waiting for her to say that all along. "Well, my darling Ginevra, in the apt words of your witty brother dearest — and I quote— 'I don't grow up, I shut up, and when I look at you—"

"—you throw up;' yes, I know." Impatiently, Ginny tossed a glance at the wall clock and swore. "Damn the gods, we have to run, and we're already going to be late as it is, which won't exactly look good on your part." She swatted at him to get his full attention and abruptly took off for the passage out, asking over her shoulder, "Did you do it?"

"Why would I not?" Draco countered, mirroring her roll of the eyes and jogging to catch up with her at the niche-like wall that incidentally was also the entrance and exit to the common room. Tossing some loosely hanging hair from his eyes, he now began to sound a bit irritated as he gestured with his head back toward the central common room. "Anyway, what did you think I was doing over there, West, running _laps— ? "_

Suddenly, from the other side of the common room and with the sound of a tiny _Pop, _a flash of dark hair, gray skirt and white blouse Hogwarts uniform, and lean legs streaked through the air before his surprised eyes.

Draco squinted, blinked, and glanced over at Ginny. "Is it just my starving, delusional mind having anther 'it's raining beautiful women' fantasy, or did you see the Head Girl just pop out of absolutely nowhere and crash into the middle of the Slytherin common room, too?"

**Saturday, January 8, 1945**

**7:13 A.M.**

With a searing jolt, Hermione's shoulder slammed hard into something cold and rock-solid.

"Ughhhh…"

She groaned, and would have lay there, wherever there was, for a good ten minutes had her eyes now flown open of their own accord. To her immense relief and utter amazement, she found herself still in the Slytherin Common Room, sprawled on the marble floor beside the fireplace.

The Head Girl didn't pause for a moment to congratulate herself on surviving a self-implosion and a jet back in time, however, nor did the aching pain in her shoulder even enter her mind. All she could think of was one thing: She was going to get to that bloody book before it burned up.

_The book!_

Adrenaline pumping through her body as if she were actually ablaze, her heart thudding so fast it might very well burst out of her chest, her mind determinedly focused on one objective, and one objective only, Hermione pushed herself to her knees.

Instantly, her eyes bugged out as she saw the considerable size of the fire beside her, as opposed to the nothing it had been a minute before now (or an hour after now, depending on how you looked at it), and she peered into the bright flames—

There it was!

The unmistakable black book had been tossed to the far edge of the blistering, crackling hearth, thus sparing it from the actual blazing inferno, but it was obvious that the hot coals had already begun to burn through the bottom pages of the book, and Hermione gasped in horror as the edges of the book's pages swiftly curled up and burst into flames—

Lunging the few inches or so across the floor to the edge of the fireplace, Hermione frantically shouted, "_ACCIO BOOK EXSTINGUO DEFLAGRO!"_ without even pausing between incantations.

With a shower of sparks, the book instantly shot out of the hearth, the fire extinguishing and the leather cooling at the same time. The brunette snatched the book out of midair with one hand while still numbly holding her trembling wand toward the fireplace with the other, breathing hard, an almost wild gleam in her eyes that subsided considerably after she reassured herself that the blessed book was no longer burning and, for the most part, still whole.

_Thank you God… thank you God…_

"Erm, Hermione… why are you still in your uniform?"

Hermione instantly let out a muffled shriek of surprise and almost dropped the book back into the fire, fumbling with it in her hands until she safely caught it again, nearly having a heart attack at the strangely familiar feminine voice from behind her in what she had been assuming was still an empty common room.

_Sweet **Merlin** Hermione… calm down! _

_Calm **DOWN?** You honestly expect me to bloody **calm down** while Tom's off and **dying **somewhere?_

Swiftly, she jerked her head up while her suddenly super-acute gaze shot beyond the topmost edge of the couch, and she sagged in relief as it fell upon Ginny and the Magic Kissing Plant Wanker as his familiar voice, deep and drawling, said, "Westlette, it might have been a better idea to start off asking her what she's even doing falling out of thin air in the first place."

Hermione hadn't been on civil terms with him since the now-unspoken post-Christmas Dinner charade, which had to have been at least two weeks ago, but now wasn't the time for some petty little grudge to take precedence.

"Where's Harry?" she demanded sharply — as this situation certainly called for more than merely polite inquisitions— and she used the nearby couch to pull herself to her feet with a little grunt. "I need him NOW!"

Ginny crossed her arms, furrowing her brow in confusion, and surveyed Hermione blankly, as if the Head Girl had sprouted bright orange scales and morphed into a blast-ended skrewt. And Hermione would have gladly explained the situation, but there just wasn't any time!

Draco the prat, however, frowned at her chidingly and spread out his arms, palms up, in a gesture of the utmost innocence, although his voice was dripping with the utmost sarcasm. "What, and here I thought you'd be leaping for joy at the very sight of us!"

_Insufferable **ferret!**_

"Don't flatter yourself, du Lac. Contrary to popular opinion, the world does _not_ revolve around you," Hermione snapped, her head still pounding as she chose to ignore his sour expression. She straightened her rumpled uniform skirt and blouse impatiently, but then another rather more pressing question that had previously been lurking below the depths of her mind surfaced, and she hurriedly asked, "Was anyone by this fireplace just now? Recently."

Draco gave a disinterested shrug of his shoulders and heaved what appeared to be a bored yawn, although his eyes briefly flicked from her face to the mildly charred book in her hands. "We just came down about five minutes ago," he said idly, and proceeded to mutter something under his breath about taking back what he'd said about beautiful women.

_Right, **didn't** expect you to be much of a help. _

Hermione expectantly shifted her keen gaze to Ginny.

The redhead wrinkled her nose in her typical thinking mode. "Erm… there was a rather large group leaving for breakfast when we did, though," she said slowly, and quickly added, "Come down, I mean. I saw Calugala Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, the works, so any of them could have easily been around the fire before we came out. Why?" She frowned at Hermione, her hazel eyes now reflecting both concern and at least a tinge of suspicion. "Mione, is everything alright?"

Hermione simply nodded vaguely, the latter question not particularly registering in her mind as she processed the former, new information.

_All Death Eaters. Figures._ But why would they want to _destroy_ their leader's only hope of recovery? Given that Tom Riddle even was their leader, a theory which no argument that she had received from Harry thus far, no matter how strong, had actually been able to prove without a doubt that he was—

_Oh, no, not this again! _

Exasperatedly shoving aside the debate of the year, Hermione's eyes were instinctively drawn to the silver and green hands of the beautifully carved wooden clock set above the hearth. When she saw to which numbers they were pointing, she briefly closed her eyes and breathed a shuddery sigh of relief.

7:17.

Tom's note had appeared in her room at 7:44. So if what he had said about his death in the letter was actually true, as she feared it was… that meant she still had time.

Granted, that only gave her exactly twenty-seven minutes to find the Anima Curse's cure somewhere in Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques, figure out how to cast it (and that was if she even could cast it—she was praying that it didn't involve some simmer-for-six-months potion), locate Harry, convince him to help her save the one person he had been up against for nearly eight years, get him to the Defense Against the Dark Arts door, figure out what Tom had hissed in Parseltongue to summon the stairs, make it all the way down to the Chamber of Secrets, and perform what was most likely going to be an extremely complicated enchantment before Tom's time ran out.

_Oh God, _Hermione thought numbly as the list went on and on, _there is no humanly possible way I'm going to be able to make it. _

Without answering Ginny's question—in actuality, the fact that Ginny'd even asked one had again completely flown in one ear and other the other— she hurriedly reopened her eyes, locked them on the curious-looking blond and the worried-looking redhead, and, the pitch of her voice desperately rising another notch or two, repeated urgently, "Where's Harry?"

"Calm down, Nef, calm down," the be-cursed blond Slytherin drawled pacifyingly. A calculating, perceptive look was spreading across his face that reminded Hermione far too much of his grandfather Calugala, and it was therefore a look that she didn't entirely trust. "What's the problem?"

_WHAT'S THE **PROBLEM?** CLEARLY, THE **PROBLEM** IS THAT I CANNOT JUST **"CALM DOWN," **CAN'T YOU SEE THAT? WHY CAN'T **YOU** JUST ANSWER THE BLASTED QUESTION? _

"Draco, there isn't time for this!" she exclaimed, her voice emerging hollow and strangled. She wouldn't be surprised if her face was steadily turning a deep shade of frustrated red, and, without warning, hot tears of desperation started to burn at her eyes. She had not energy to hold them back, and she simply locked a pleading gaze on Ginny, who was turning out to be the more reputable source. "Please, Ginny, he must have said _something_ to you about where the meetings normally take place!"

Ginny's questioning eyes shrewdly assessed her, twisting a long lock of fiery hair tightly around one finger. It was clear to the brunette that Ginny was thinking hard, but Hermione had absolutely no idea what was so difficult about to tell her where Harry was.

After only another moment's pause, though, Hermione sagged in enormous relief as Ginny bit her lip and answered quickly, "As far as I know, he should be heading toward the passage to Hogsmeade at the witch's hump relatively soon. He and Ron were meeting up for breakfast first, I think. Do you need us to go with—"

But Hermione's ears had heard no further than 'the witch's hump;' barely remembering to throw some garbled words of thanks over her shoulder to Draco and Ginny, she was already weaving her way around the slim forest green couches and plump armchairs, past the sleek wall barrier between corridor and common room.

So, if she ran really, really fast, she might be able to still catch them.

The Head Girl shot out into the dark lower level corridor, and a rush of cold castle air slamming into her served as enough of an impetus to jolt some of her enervated senses back to reasonably functioning life, but after only a few awkward meters of running, she was clearly getting absolutely nowhere very quickly.

Undoubtedly, the uniform had been invented for women by men, and not for the ease of moving around, either. _Sodding skirt!_

Mid-run, Hermione pointed her wand at her bare legs in impatient aggravation and easily transfigured the short, flapping skirt into what she distantly hoped would resemble time-period acceptable pants, although at this point worrying about fitting in with the latest clothing styles was the farthest thing from her mind.

_Oh **God…** God help me get to them in time!_

In a heartbeat, she was able to quicken her speed, the dark pants providing her with so much more releasing freedom of motion that she was soon flying, running faster and praying harder than she ever had in her life. Were she not on such a deadly seriously mission she would have been exhilarated from the pure rush of it all, but her mind whizzed past even more quickly, whirring, racing at a pace that seemed on the brink of the speed of sound.

But the precious seconds were steadily slipping away.

She couldn't perform the _Impartus Infinitivum_ again to give herself more time, that much she knew. The simple task of sending herself almost an hour backward had unutterably drained her, so much so that, were it not for the adrenaline and some deeper force that must surely have been driving her on, she would have willingly collapsed to the ground and succumbed to darkness way back in the Slytherin common room. rather than sprinting up staircases, around bends, down relatively deserted halls like a madwoman on speed.

Of course, the basis Hermione's entire plan depended on if —and this being a very, very large 'if'— _if_ Tom was, in fact, in the Chamber of Secrets, which she had merely inferred from his letter that he was. She couldn't be sure, and he certainly hadn't come out and told her.

And Ron and Harry were still nowhere in sight!

_Oh God, **please, **_she pleaded again, taking a sharp right and racing up a flight of stairs, the gap between her and the witch's hump closing painfully slowly. A part of her wasn't even sure how she would manage to find the energy to perform the magic for the cure — if there indeed was one.

She could only trust that when the time came, she would be able to gather the strength from _somewhere._ _I am not going to lose him!_ she again thought fiercely. Not when… now when…

_Not when I'm in love with him._

It was the first time she'd consciously admitted it to herself since her father had asked her if she had on Christmas, but she realized it was just as true now as it was then. She really _loved_ him, more deeply, more wholeheartedly and unconditionally than she had ever romantically loved any other man.

This comprehension burst forth within her with a such powerful emotional wave and twist at her insides that she wasn't sure whether to break out into hysterical tears or happy laughter. She didn't care, then, who he'd been, who he might have become, what another side of him had gone on to do to her and her family and the modern world that she valued so dearly. She didn't allow herself to dwell on the fact one of the reasons few wizards dared to mess with time was because it was nearly impossible to change so drastically.

Nothing more mattered to her except the precious knowledge that she loved Tom Riddle and he loved her back just as much, and damn all reason to hell if she was going to let that love be lost in less than a dozen minutes! Not when she could do something about it!

But good Lord, the time!

_Sweet Merlin, what kind of game am I trying to play… and hoping to **win?**_ She, a mere human, was waging war against the most ruthless competitor of them all, the most constant, eternal entity in the universe. Therefore, she should think it had a slightly distinct advantage.

_Most of the important things in this world have been accomplished by people who kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all._

Hermione clung to this last thought like a lifeline as she raced down the dimly lit halls of Hogwarts. In the earliest hours of the Saturday morning, they were relatively quiet, the faint glow of a crisp, clear winter morning only beginning to shine through intermittent windows, vibrant portraits and tapestries blending together and blurring by in a bleeding mural of color as she passed.

The peacefulness of her surroundings was proving to act as a direct foil to the turmoil churning within her. She could feel herself shaking, her heart so stressfully tight that she honestly did begin to fear she might have a heart attack, and she hurriedly flipped open to the first few pages of the singed Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques. The pages flapped up and down with each bounding stride she took, but she desperately tried to read, translate, and run at the same time.

Which was by no means an easy task!

She spotted a Table of Contents right off. _Thank Merlin!_ At this point, she needed some kind of a break—any kind of break!— and this would save her a lot of time. Her alert eyes nimbly scanned the yellowed page, and she tried to decipher the over-flourished cursive. _**Disinagous… Sinistria…** Come **on,** where **is** it?…** Lenium… Dominius Alieum… Anima. **Yes._

She was going on basic instinct now and nothing else, and as she swiftly flipped to **La Malédiction de l'Anima … 45,** she blindly made the last wild turn between her and the witch's hump at top speed—

"_Oof!" _

Hermione squeaked in surprise as she unexpectedly collided with something solid (and it wasn't a wall), and all the air burst from her lungs as she distantly heard a deep, muttered curse from the other half of the crash, and she instinctively, firmly gripped the French book as if it was made of homespun gold, lest whoever she had run into try to grab it or it attempt to fly out of her hands.

_Please, God, don't let it be Malfoy…_

"Hermione?"

Hermione blinked rapidly, gasping for breath, and tilting her head back, a hulking body with a familiar face and a mop of thick red hair completely filled her vision. _Ron!_ For a moment, she blankly wondered if he was a Death Eater, too… but no, that didn't matter at the moment, because wherever Ron was, that meant…

"Harry," she panted, still frantically attempting to catch her breath, her chest heaving, burning painfully. "Ron… need… Harry!"

An unopened bottle of butterbeer was waved below her nose as if Ron was wagging a finger at her, and he crossed his arms condescendingly, a childishly indignant expression demoting his freckled, mature face. "What, no hello for me as well?"

"Ron, now is _not_ the time!" Hermione said sharply, finally regaining some of her breath, though she had to sharply reach out and clutch the wall for support, briefly closing her eyes and bending double to clear her tiredly clouding mind. A super-athlete, she was not. _Harry… **I need Harry…**_

"Hermione? What's going on? What's wrong?"

_Oh thank God._

At the baritone voice of reason that usually never failed to soothe her in a tense situation, Hermione quickly straightened, still a bit winded, as the tall figure of the Boy-Who-Lived emerged from behind the equally tall Ron, similarly dressed in a dark pair of pants and shirt. And she was counting on that baritone voice of reason to come to her rescue.

All concern with Ron's presence flew from her mind, and she reached out with one hand and caught Harry's sleeve, unknowingly gripping it so hard she practically dragged him closer. "Harry..." she gasped, still breathing hard, "Harry, listen to me. I... _need..._ to get into the Chamber of Secrets!"

Harry blinked, the surprise instantly spreading across his face revealing that that was obviously the last thing he had ever expected to come out of her mouth. His jaw tightened he stared at her uncomprehendingly. "What?"

_Alright, so maybe that was just a tad bit too much too-the-point. _But she didn't have time to beat around the bush!

The instant tensing of the jaw was not a good sign, yet Hermione plunged ahead anyway. "Tom Riddle's going to die from the Anima Curse today—soon very soon—and he's gone to the Chamber of Secrets. I need you to help me get to him," she explained quickly, her leg tapping impatiently.

She suddenly became distinctly aware that Lavender's seared book had begun to shake uncontrollably in her trembling hand. Harry was her only chance. _Sweet Merlin, if he didn't understand, if he didn't help her…_

She was afraid she would never forgive him if he didn't.

But no, what was she even thinking? _He's one of your best friends! Of course he'll understand!_ her mind exclaimed, automatically reassuring.

_Will he?_ another part of her asked bitterly, the part that was currently reminding her exactly who it had been who had been so keen on using the Amima curse to its fullest potential, who had sent her off with the intent to kill Tom Riddle with love and who had celebrated when it was certain it would. _Will **any** of them?_

"Harry?" she probed keenly after a tense moment, hating to be rude, but at this point, she really didn't give a damn about how she came off to anyone.

All she cared about was getting to Tom.

Harry let out a soft sigh and tiredly raked a hand through dark hair, more flat than usual as if it was still damp after a shower. "Mione, I have a Death Eater Meeting in ten minutes. Malfoy confirmed it himself this morning," he said carefully, fingering a dark robe hanging over his arm before shrugging on what Hermione assumed to be the simple requirement for Death Eater uniform. "Riddle can't be dying, and he's not in the Chamber of Secrets."

"That's impossible," Hermione instantly disagreed flatly, shaking her head vigorously in opposition, "Tom can't run a meeting; not when he's dea—dying—Oh, I don't know!" She waved her hands to try to illustrate her point, but at Harry's you're-not-making-sense expression, she adamantly added, "I don't care what Malfoy told you about the meeting, Harry, I know he's down there!"

…_sort of…_

She continued rapidly before she either lost his attention or his concern, her uptight voice again becoming more strangled and garbled the longer she spoke, "There's another entrance to the Chamber at the Defense Against the Dark Arts door but I need to say something in Parseltongue to get it to work and since I obviously don't speak Parseltongue I need you to do it for me and I'm _sorry_ that I can't tell you what I know but I've only got a few minutes until it'll be too late and he'll die and oh _God_ Harry I don't want him to—"

"Hang on," Harry interrupted suddenly, holding up his hand.

Hermione gratefully used the pause to suck in a much-needed breath of air as he studied her pensively. "You're saying that Riddle's going to die soon, and he knew he's going to die soon, so he's gone off to the Chamber of Secrets to…what? Die there?" His brow furrowed deeply, and his emerald eyes thoughtfully narrowed. "And you can get into the Chamber though the Defense _door?" _

"Exactly!" Hermione nodded vigorously, desperate for him to understand. "But the thing is, I've just found a cure for the Curse. He doesn't know about it, no one does, so if I can get to him before it's too late—"

_CrEEEEk. _

A tiny, almost inaudible shuffle against the stone floor to her right.

Hermione froze. "Wait."

Tensing at the soft noise, she abruptly stopped speaking and hastily held up a hand like Harry had moments before. She might have just voluntarily performed an imploding time travel spell on herself, could have used less rationality, more recklessness in the last fifteen minutes than she had since she was born, but she had definitely heard something. She might be crazy in love, but she hadn't gone _completely_ mental… yet, anyway...

But now, only silence met her straining ears.

In a familiar practice, Ron crossed his arms, rolled his head back toward the ceiling, and noisily blew out a very irritated breath of hot air. "Hermione, what—"

"_Ssssh!"_ she hissed sharply as her eyes suspiciously darted to a dark corner of the seemingly-empty hall. And yes, this was just a _little_ bit disturbing. First the inconspicuous but definite creak in the Hospital Wing a few weeks ago when it had been otherwise empty, and now this…

No matter what people said, buildings did not "settle" themselves by making indiscriminate scuffing noises in the middle of hallways or hospital wings—whenever a human being happened to be around, no less. And when nothing that could have logically, reasonably made the noise was visible… it was just too chillingly uncanny to be coincidental.

After a moment, she noticed that Harry's piercing gaze had sharply followed hers before shifting and questioningly probing the side of her turned head. Still rigid, she took a cautious step backward, in the direction of the nearby Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, and muttered softly, "We can't talk here; something's off."

"Ah." Ron nodded intelligently, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "The ghost of Riddle already haunting his domain, is he?"

_Ronald **Weasley,** I swear to Merlin, if you weren't my best friend I would seriously attempt to **kill** you right now! _

Literally a millimeter away from screaming that one out loud and firing off the worst hex she knew into the nearest inanimate statue,she somehow resisted the very tempting urge and instead snapped edgily, "Shut up, Ronald." She shot the lanky redhead a fuming glare, to which Ron narrowed his own eyes, honestly appearing to be at a complete loss at the reason for her frenzied, worried actions, and he immediately returned the expression with a 'what are you on?' one of his own.

Had the clock not been ticking down, Hermione would not have hesitated to reach over and throttle some compassion into him.

_Doesn't anyone else see the urgency of this situation?_

Good God, somewhere in Hogwarts, a boy—a man, really— was about to die! Didn't anyone _care?_

_**Tom laughed hollowly. "No one'll care if I live or die, anyway."**_

_**Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes. "I'll care," she said honestly.**_

Emotion burst past some unseen dam and flooded her eyes, and while she choked back a muffled sob, she was somehow able to hold back the tears. Even though the memory was only from the night before, it seemed as if she hadn't seen Tom for ages, like the words had traveled past some great, gulfing abyss, emerging blotchy and unclear.

As terrible as it was to imagine, that someone could die and no one would take notice or even want to be with him at the end, Tom had been right. He was dying, and no one cared.

_No one but me. _

Horrified realization settled around Hermione like a thick fog then, as well as an overwhelming, sobering sense of responsibility. She really was the only hope he had left. It wasn't just her future happiness resting on the line here, it was his life. She couldn't give up now! She _wouldn't_ give up!

With renewed vigor, Hermione flicked some fallen strands of wavy hair from her eyes and re-tightened her grip on Harry's arm, searching his completely unreadable face. "Please, at least let me show you," she pleaded, taking yet another step backward.

_Why are you begging?_ she suddenly wondered. _He's your friend! You shouldn't have to beg him for help! You've been there for him, all these years, and when it matters, he's supposed to be there for you, too! _

Hermione's gaze instantly hardened, and she added in a low, deadly serious voice, "You owe me that much."

It could have simply been a shadow, but Hermione thought she saw Harry's face darken, whether out of remembrance of the trials they had undergone together or anger at what she was asking him to do, she didn't know. Out of the corner of her eye, she knew Ron's certainly had—darkened, she meant.

But this was still getting her nowhere very quickly!

Playing the last card she had, she promptly dropped Harry's arm, spun around, and started off in the direction of the Defense Against the Dark Arts door. She squeezed her eyes shut as she walked, her heart thudding, fingers crossed, _**Please,** Harry, come **on…**_

_Yes._

Her shoulders slumped slightly in relief as she heard at least one pair of footsteps slapping against the ground behind her. Without looking back, she continued to walk briskly, feeling that she had already explained the situation at hand well enough for the moment. She—and the footsteps— soon reached the end of the witch's hump hallway in surprising silence and, thankfully, turned down the stretch of the one that housed the Defense classroom.

Hermione clutched Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques in a death grip. She was too preoccupied with figuring out how she was going to convince Harry to speak in Parseltongue to be concerned with the actual counter curse. She was going by minutes, _seconds_ now —as was Tom's life, to her greater knowledge— and scaling one obstacle at the time was the sole component of her modus operandi.

Suddenly, she felt a distinct presence to her right. Turning her head quickly, she saw the Boy-Who-Lived finally draw up alongside her silently, his tall, sturdy form easily keeping up with her rapid steps. A strangely brooding, meditative gleam shimmered in his eyes, however, and it was one that Hermione honestly feared would choose to not help her save Riddle in the end.

After all, the other Riddle (as she was beginning to think of the Tom Riddle who had turned into Voldemort) had killed Harry's parents as well, and this was what really concerned Hermione.

Harry most likely felt that he owed nothing to this Tom Riddle except, probably, retribution, as horrible as that was, and she could only pray that the Harry she knew would not stoop so far as to let a boy—a boy who _had_ chosen a different, better path from his infamous alternate universe double— die out of pure revenge.

But she could actually feel Ron's piercing, blatantly angry gaze burning into her skull as she heard his loping footsteps grudgingly trailing along behind them, muttering muffled profanities under his breath. She was quickly becoming exasperated with him; no, scratch that, extremely angry— _I would never do this to you if you asked me for help, Ron, and you bloody well know it!_

"I know what you're thinking, Ron, and I don't care," she said suddenly, not turning around to face him as she spoke as she skidded to a stop outside the ancient, beautifully made Defense door. She kept her tone even and indifferent for fear that she would break down if she said it, shouted it with the passion that she really wanted to use, to make him—to make everyone!— understand not only how much she honestly cared about Tom Riddle, but that Tom Riddle was someone who was _worth_ caring about. "I can save him, I really can, and I really want to!"

Before she could even blink, Ron had come up out of nowhere, and she actually jumped as he violently slammed his hand on the wall, her heart momentarily failing to beat. "Hermione, have you gone absolutely _nutters?"_ he hissed like an angry mother goose, his eyes furtively darting up and down the empty classroom-lined hallway as if he expected Lord Voldemort in all his red-eyed glory to leap out at them at any minute.

Hermione gaped at him in horror, shocked into silence by his aggressive act. Sure, she had seen Ron angry loads of times—it was practically built into his temperamental redhead nature— but he had never_—_ He was completely overreacting and being absolutely ridiculous!

After a second, she shook herself out of it, and she evenly met his reddening face and angry gaze with disappointed eyes. _If what matters so much to me really matters that little to you, then you and I really don't have that much in common after all._

_Goodbye, Ron._

"Have _you?"_ she countered coldly.

She didn't care when Ron's certain-she-would-fall-at-his-feet-and-agree-wholeheartedly expression faltered slightly at her tone's abrupt chill. She had _no_ idea of how much time she had left, but she knew it wasn't much, maybe ten or eleven minutes at best, so she found it far less strenuous to simply ignore him—after all, _he_ wasn't the person she needed to open the door to the Chamber of Secrets. And speaking of whom—

Whirling, she grabbed Harry's dark robes and clutched the dark material in her hands. "Harry."

At her whirlwind movement, Harry started in surprise, jerking back from whatever place of mental reflection he had been at and quickly refocusing down on the Head Girl."Hermione," he began in a low voice, and her heart collapsed at the note of warning she could detect in his tone—

She had to get him to see the truth!

"Harry, wait, hear me out, _please,"_ she cut him off before he could flat-out turn her down. Softly, she swiftly spoke to him in urgent undertones. "Youknow what it's like to lose someone, and you know I would never ask anything like this of you unless it meant the world to me—" Her voice cracked, and, biting her lip, she added hoarsely, "I can't do this alone."

Again, she was painfully aware of the time, and at this point, if she needed to beg, then so be it. Pleadingly, she stared up into the emerald eyes of her best friend, the man she had played alongside, learned alongside, _fought_ alongside for eight years, desperately searching the bottomless green depths that she knew so well. "Please help me," she whispered.

Harry's acute gaze probed into hers more intensely than she remembered him _ever_ have doing, so much so that she was certain he could probably pierce though her body and read her soul, if he really tried. Months of living with Tom Riddle, however, had conditioned her, and she steadily met his laser-like stare head-on.

But even a confident facade couldn't stop a fresh wave of despair from flooding her mind like a crushing, dark deluge.

_He's not going to do it,_ she thought miserably. _He's not going to help me._

**A/N:** Well here's the first part… -nervously awaits your feedback- I know it's been a long time, so I hope I haven't gotten rusty! I would like to hear from all of you again—it really has been too long! My plan: I'm going to concentrate on finishing the next chapter, and then I'll try to answer as many reviews as I can. See the Bio fora little more stuff on the story.

Hopefully, I should have the next chapter up, you'll find out whether Harry helps her or not and what happens to Tom this coming week, but my big interviews are this Friday and Saturday (so think of me then! I'm so nervous!) so we'll have to see how the week goes. Thanks also to Beth and SenatorSarah who picked up on a few errors in this chapter which I've since corrected (haha Beth I stared at yours for at least two minutes and I couldn't figure out what the problem was because in my mind I knew exactly what she was thinking, and I just somehow saw it all on the paper too!).

Oh! And because I didn't anticipate breaking up the chapters, the coming attraction from last chapter also applies to this one.

Thank you all for sticking with me for so long! It means a lot to me!

Peace out-

Lady Moonglow


	31. Have You Ever Been In Love, Part 2

**IMPORTANT: As of 2/23/07, I have _altered_ the final paragraphs of this chapter to be the ultimate conclusion for Have You Ever. So much has happened to me in the past year that I feel I need to bring closure to this story, both for myself and for you, as readers. Initially, I did have several more plot twists planned (including the BIG one at the end of this chapter, which I have now removed), but looking at what I had sketched out of what I had thought to be a few more chapters, I feel that they would have only deterred and confused from the real essence of the story- the love between Hermione and Tom, with no interruptions, disregarding who they were, who they are, and who they might become. Thus, some of you may feel like there are still some strings left unattached, but how those strings tie will be up to your imagination – if any of you would like to write 'continuation' stories on this site or others like it, I have absolutely no problem with it; feel free. So, as last but no less words of appreciation, THANK YOU ALL SO VERY MUCH FOR YOUR CONTINUED REVIEWS AND SUPPORT. From beautiful artwork, to incredible trailers that have left so many viewers in awe of your abilities – every one of you is talented, amazing, and blessed. Don't just share yourself with the fan fiction community… get out there and live that out in real life! **

**A/N:** The translation for any French used in this chapter will appear at the end of the chapter for all you non-French-speaking people (like me), and I would like to thank my French expert **SenatorSarah**!

_Harry's acute gaze probed into hers more intensely than she remembered him ever have doing, so much so that she was certain he could probably pierce though her body and read her soul, if he really tried. Months of living with Tom Riddle, however, had conditioned her, and she steadily met his laser-like stare head-on._

_But even a confident facade couldn't stop a fresh wave of despair from flooding her mind like a crushing, dark deluge._

_He's not going to do it, she thought miserably. He's not going to help me._

**Chapter 31: The Countdown**

**7:30 A.M.**

An electrically charged beat of silence passed, in which Hermione stood rigidly under a brooding emerald green gaze, her honey brown eyes returning the pensive stare as evenly as she could, her heart thudding painfully, resonating in every inch of her body, her back to a quite angry and confused Ron.

And then, to her absolute _shock_, Harry nodded once, tensely, his jaw still set. "So what do I do?"

_Oh thank God._

Hermione's knees sagged slightly, and she could have cried in relief as he turned to the Defense door, eyeing it as if it was his next dueling opponent. Harry was going to help her, he was going to help her, _he was going to help her!_

At that moment, such a weight was lifted off her chest, she felt like she already had Tom back in her arms, safe and alive, even though she knew she still had a long road ahead of her in a very short amount of time.

_Okay, now back to business. Come on, Hermione, **move,**_ her mind urged. With a shaking hand, she swiftly fished around in her pocket and placed Tom's Slytherin amulet in Harry's outstretched hand. "Hold this to the door and say something in Parseltongue," she instructed quickly.

With the best part of her ability, she tried to disregard Ron's surprised, vehement yelp of "Harry, you're not serious! Saving Ridd—Bloody nutters, the both of you!", still frantically waving his bottle of butterbeer in illustration.

"Say something," Harry echoed thoughtfully, apparently ignoring his best mate too as he briefly scrutinized the glittering snake-eyed emerald and diamond-encrusted silver amulet and then lifted it, pressing it flat against the wood like Tom had two weeks before. He glanced back at her like Tom had also done, although not with uncertain, fervent gray eyes, but with curious green ones. "Like what?"

_**Hurry,** Harry!_

A wave of hysteria abruptly surged through her nerves, sending her heart into a panic and her head into a tizzy, and before she could stop herself she snapped waspishly, "Like _'open!' "_

_Come on, hurry, **hurry…**_

"Oh, er… right." Smiling sheepishly, Harry turned back to the door, his emerald gaze locking onto the tiny, twisted metal snake. He didn't seemed to be especially concerned with hearing Ron noisily, angrily stalking back and forth in the background, and, almost fluidly, he hissed.

The snake's miniature emerald eyes flashed, and two tiny rays of haunting, brilliant green shot like twin lasers into the hall, although the cool glow of the approaching morning shining through some large bay windows farther down the way, dulled the dramatic effect of it considerably.

Like before, the Defense Against the Dark Arts door swung open with a small, ghostly _creeeeek, _and Hermione noticed that even Ron had frozen and was staring at the angled polished wood and subsequent, gaping darkness as if a much-loved and trusted friend had unexpectedly morphed into a demon from hell.

_Right, he should know about that,_ she couldn't help but think bitterly.

Harry, though, briefly, almost lovingly fingered the familiar Defense doorframe before his gaze darkened, traveling into the shadowy spiral-down passage beyond. "Slytherin had to have a right enjoyable time building this." A wry little smile broke out on his face as he unhesitatingly stepped past the frame and onto the top stone stair. "Imagine, making the main entrance to the Chamber of Secrets run right through the Defense Against the Dark Arts door. It's the perfect irony."

At that point, Hermione really didn't give two hoots about what Salazar Slytherin was thinking while he was merrily planning the construction of a monster-housing chamber; all she knew was that Tom was _so close_ she could practically feel his presence desperately calling her name from within the depths of the dark passage.

"We have to hurry, Harry," she said tightly, voicing the thought that had been screaming through her mind for the past… well, for God knows how long, and, pausing momentarily, she quickly lifted her wand and muttered,_ "Horus."_

A misty, red _7:32_ floated upward like a ghost out of the end of her wand, fading into transparency and eventually vaporizing into thin air.

Merlin help her, she only had twelve minutes left. _He_ only had twelve minutes left.

Without looking back up, the brunette practically sprang into the stairway—and plowed headfirst into Ron, who in the past two seconds had somehow maneuvered from her left to suddenly barring the way down to the Chamber of Secrets, his towering frame taking up most of the door as he held out his arms.

Hermione's heart stopped in dread, because she _knew_ she was going to do whatever it took to save Tom's life… and Merlin help anyone who got in her way. Gripping her wand tightly in one hand and Un Amour in the other, she dangerously growled, _"What_ are you doing?" like an angry mother bear, returning home to find an intruder standing between her and her cubs.

The sudden, chilly venom in her voice didn't seem to daunt nor deter him. Instead, he lowered his capped butterbeer at her as if pointing a knowing finger and wagging it, an expression of complete incomprehension on his face. "Hermione, you do realize that if he doesn't die, we all know what he'll go on to do!"

Hermione bristled instantly. "We don't know that; the future isn't set in stone anymore! You saw that! He got sick, which he hadn't the first time; he… he fell in love! He would have rather _died_ than not have been in love!"

When the lanky redhead simply rolled his eyes at her dramatics, she swallowed back the urge to throw up and, happily letting anger overpower her desperation, she added with a short laugh, "But you wouldn't understand that, would you? Have you ever really been in love with Lavender, Ronald?"

It was a low blow, but Hermione was furious, and while his gaze immediately darkened, he didn't warrant her with an answer, so she vehemently reiterated, "We don't know that he will!"

"Yeah, well, we don't know that the bastard _won't,_ either, do we?" he countered cuttingly, swinging his bottle near his head in an exasperated arc, his face steadily reddening by the minute.

Her mouth fell open. "Ron!"she exclaimed sharply, eying his leg. Merlin knows she should have hexed him, but for some reason, she didn't have the heart. "Let me through!" But when he crossed his arms and made no attempt to move aside, she blew out a pent-up breath of utter frustration and kicked out hard without any feelings of guilt whatsoever.

"Oi! _Merlin,_ woman—" Ron dodged the blow from her foot and held up his hands in an 'I'm just an innocent victim' sort of way, but didn't surrender the doorway. "I know, I know; look, Mione, I'm sorry, okay, but he's already become Lord Voldemort, don't you see?"

Ignoring the sudden, dagger-like glare that sprang to her eyes, _he_ was now the one who sounded desperate as he continued, "I mean, if not when he made up the bloody name in the first place, he sure became him when he opened the Chamber of Secrets—"

"I don't believe that," Hermione retorted flatly, and she wondered whether the best way to get around him would be by simply walking straight through him.

Ron was deflating, but not by much, and he appeared to be falling back on the last legs of his argument. His face now a deep shade of tomato, his hazel eyes wide and slightly wild, and, violently raking a hand through his thick red hair and holding it so that it stuck up unnaturally and vaguely resembled a peacock, he shouted, "Hermione, he's _Tom Riddle!"_

As if that fact alone was justification and reason enough.

"That's not his fault,Ron!" she snapped tightly, steeling herself for her next move. _Damn_ it, she didn't have the time to be playing Ron's little games like this! And so what if he was Tom Riddle? What did that even mean, anyway? Icily, she added, "Does his name take away his right to live?"

"Well… yes!" he spluttered, the baffled expression that had been glaring in his eyes, scrawled across his face now replaced by complete, furious disbelief as his voice escalated about twenty decibels louder,"My God, Hermione, what the bloody hell is wrong with you? He…he killed Harry's parents! He killed _your_ parents!"

"He didn't _yet!"_ Hermione countered, her impatience boiling over, and she rounded on him, spontaneously combusting. "Please— d'you want to go back? Go back! I didn't ask for your help with this! I understand that you are completely ignorant where _my_ Tom Riddle is concerned, and that's exactly why I don't expect you to understand what I'm doing, Ronald, I just expect you to get out of my way!"

_My **God!**_

With that, without even realizing that she had just referred to Tom Riddle as _hers,_ she both shoved him aside with every ounce of strength she had and swiftly ducked under one of his arms, scooting beyond him into the narrow passageway without a second glance backward, and he made no effort to stop her.

A sudden, frigid gust of stale air encased her, blew and whirled around her as she stepped into the murky, shadowy gloom, but she found it had little effect on her fury. She was still shaking furiously, still ready to spring to Tom Riddle's defense, and, distantly, her mind registered that Harry was already gone… Had he already started down?

In any case, the staircase wasn't spiraling downward on its own (as it had when Tom had taken her down), so Hermione only waited a half second before she gripped the singed French book of cures and plunged down the ancient steps on her own. She could vaguely see the glow of torchlight illuminating the staircase ahead of her, intermittent torches spluttering to life, as if someone was moving past them to make them do so.

"Harry, there's one more block you have to open!" she breathlessly yelled on a whim, trying, at the same time, to figure out what in God's name she was going to do once she got into the Chamber, watch where she was going, and sprint down the small steps without tripping and killing herself. She could feel her hair bouncing, tumbling out of the bun, but she didn't care, and her mind was doing so many other things at once that reaching out and putting it back up was out of the question.

"It's got two huge snakes carved into the wall on either side?" she heard Harry call back.

She didn't stop to question why he was suddenly so willing to help her with this, to wonder what he had been thinking about when he had relented and agreed to open the Defense Against the Dark Arts door. "That's the one!" she shouted back, and could just barely make out a muffled grunt from somewhere down the winding, tower-like staircase in reply.

Risking taking a wrong step and breaking her neck, Hermione doubled her pace, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up with him. She hit the bottom level running and was just in time to see the back of his robes disappear around a bend in the damp, shadowy stone tunnel. Luckily, sprinting like mad was enough to drain some of her anger out of her.

Finally, she caught up with him, standing before the great, towering, and closed entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Her hair now tumbling in wild curls around her face, she stumbled to a stop beside him, panting, and glanced at him questioningly, but he didn't look impressed with the enormity of it.

"I passed these when I came in the way through Moaning Myrtle's bathroom," he explained tonelessly, apparently following her line of thought although he wasn't even looking at her, merely standing rigidly, his arms crossed, his glasses slightly askew as he tilted his head back and warily stared up at the huge stone snakes as if gazing upon an old nemesis.

"Suppose the two entrances have to meet up somewhere," she agreed breathlessly, her breath visibly exiting from her mouth in tiny, vaporized puffs— the trip between Defense door and giant stone panel seemed to have passed much more quickly now than it had the last time, thank Merlin. And her mind told there that she should be cold, freezing cold right now, but her blood was boiling, pumped with so much adrenaline, that she wasn't.

Suddenly, more pounding footsteps sounded behind them, and Hermione stiffened, standing, still trying to catch her breath … and groaned to herself when Ron's unmistakable voice shouted from somewhere still in the tunnel, "Merlin's beard, what the _devil_ are you doing? Have you forgotten there's a basilisk in there that fancies a good kill every now and then?"

Hermione sighed heavily, her heart beginning to pound faster. _You just **can't** accept the truth, can you?_ she thought disappointedly. She wasn't going to deny that she wasn't fuming at him, because she was; his voice alone had begun to grate on her nerves, and she just wished he'd stayed out of this.

After all, it was obvious he didn't want to be here anyway, and his being around was only going to make things that much more difficult.

"It only comes when it's called," she retorted caustically without turning around to acknowledge him, inadvertently quoting Tom's earlier reassurance to her. Her gaze locked stubbornly on one of the gigantic twin serpent's glittering emerald eyes, still on the defensive from his earlier inquisition. "And he's obviously not going to have called it if he's come down here to die."

" '_Obviously,' _eh?" Ron scoffed, and she heard his feet crunching on the ground behind them. He still sounded both miffed and suspicious. "And since when did you become such a Tom Riddle expert, may I ask?"

Luckily, Hermione didn't have to come up with an answer, because at that moment Harry intervened by loudly hissing a command.

The firebrand redhead's attention was ultimately diverted to the Chamber of Secrets as the solid stone wall magically parted with a low rumble and a fresh rush of icy and musty air, revealing the dramatic splendor of the cavernous, gaping chamber, the intricately carved, huge towering stone pillars, each one stretching up and up until it vanished into darkness, and she heard him whisper, "Blimey…"

Hermione, however, was far less impressed by the display as she had already seen it recently, and her sharp gaze immediately strayed farther inside the supernatural green haze of the Chamber, searching, searching, searching for what she had been seeking for the past half hour, for what she had traveled back in time to find…

She was not disappointed.

On the shimmering black onyx floor, about halfway between where she was standing and the far, towering statue of Salazar Slytherin was a crumpled form that was clearly out of place amidst the regal, towering columns and razor-straight, liquidly flat marble.

Harry must have seen it, too, because from the corner of her eye she saw his head sharply turn toward her, his piercing gaze burning into the side of her face. "Hermione," he began warily, "We don't kno—"

But his words fell upon deaf ears, because she had already begun to run, her arms and legs numb from the cold, her mind and heart quite nearly the same way for another reason entirely. Some part of her was so happy she had managed, against all odds, to get to him, _so_ happy… but the other half was reeling in absolute horror. What if she couldn't do it? What if the cure was a fluke?

What if she couldn't save him?

She made it to the form before she realized that she had even left her original position at the entrance to the Chamber… and it was exactly as she'd feared. Like a giant wrench had closed around her heart like a vise, squeezing painfully, she numbly stared down at Tom Riddle. _Her_ Tom Riddle.

He was sprawled on his side as if he had already been unconscious by the time he hit the floor, still in his uniform down to the very robe he had worn the night before. Against the dark floor and with a shower of dark hair spilling, mussed, across his forehead and upper portion of his painfully thin face, his skin appeared even more ghostly pale than it already was, nearly translucent, eerily shadowed in the supernatural green haze of the Chamber.

He already looked dead.

Even though she'd eaten nothing in the past twelve hours, a horrible urge to vomit rose within her; tears flooded her horror-struck eyes and her mind filled with ghastly images of her hardly unrecognizable parents when she'd come upon them in her nearly-destroyed house; she hadn't even realized that Harry and Ron had followed her until she heard Ron's voice state flatly, "Well, there you go, Mione. It's too late."

"He's still got a chance," she countered automatically, her body, her mind still paralyzed, and her voice emerged no louder than a hoarse whisper.

Ron held his hand out at the Heir of Slytherin's limp, unmoving body as if the answer was obvious by simply looking at him. "Slim to none."

Desperate anger surged through Hermione, then, quickly thawing her frozen senses and her nerves; how could he just accept a death with such a ho-hum shrug off? Even if she wasn't in love with Tom, his was still a human life, for God's sake! Who was he to give up so easily; what gave him the _right_ to determine that there was no hope left?

Then again, if her friends were still stubbornly convinced that Tom was going to become Lord Voldemort no matter what, that the only way to stop him was if he was dead, that he wouldn't choose to take a higher road if it was offered to him, then she supposed his life _would_ mean very little to them.

_Oh my God, why did he have to follow us?_

"It's _not_ slim to none, _Ronald,_ because that's not a chance!" she exclaimed shrilly, and her shouted words eerily echoed like an otherworldly spirit off the walls of the vast chamber: _'Not a chance, not a chance, not a chance…'_

She must had stunned Ron into silence because neither he nor Harry said anything, just stood there, watching. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but she unhesitatingly fell to her knees beside Tom's chillingly inert body. Taking his cold wrist in her shaking hand, forcing herself not to lose control of her dangerously unstable, hanging-by-a-thread emotions, she held her breath, her stomach clenching in dread—but yes!

Hermione gasped in a breath of relief, her eyes briefly closing as she muttered a quick prayer of thanks to whichever god had looked down upon her hopeless situation and taken pity. There was a pulse, but it was so _painfully_ faint…... _thump……… thump………… thump………_

_WHAT ARE YOU DOING? _Some part of her suddenly screamed, pulling out all the stops as it battered Hermione's mind and muscles into action. _HE'S STILL ALIVE! GET MOVING, HERMIONE! KEEP HIM THAT WAY!_

She twisted around so quickly, so unexpectedly that Ron actually jumped an inch in surprise. He was standing a few feet to the right of Harry, thus being the closer of the two, and she reached out, grabbed his free, un-butterbeer occupied hand, yanked it toward her as he let out a little yelp, and shoved Un Amour into it. "Page 45. Read me the first line. Now!"

Ron squinted at her peculiarly, a trace of malice still clearly shining in his hazel eyes, but he slowly opened the cover, his gaze moving back and forth as if he was scanning the words as he flipped through the pages.

A second later, he looked back down at her, his voice asserting that their fight from above wasn't finished. "It's dark," he said plaintively, sounding, in Hermione's opinion, like a whining five-year-old who was trying to come up with any excuse not to do his homework. "How am I supposed to read this?"

Hermione's mouth fell open, and she gaped at him in disbelief. "Are you or are you not a wizard?"

"Alright, you two," another voice interrupted tiredly, silencing them both, and Hermione quickly shifted her gaze toward Harry as the dark haired boy stepped forward next to Ron stiffly and muttered, _"Lumos."_

A moment later, he was holding his lit wand out, casting a glow over the book, and Hermione weakly sent him a grateful smile. His eyes remained serious, but one corner of his lips—just one—twitched upward slightly in response. Ron, meanwhile, calculatingly glanced between them and let out what appeared to be a deliberately loud and pointed sigh.

The Boy-Who-Lived's gaze shifted over to his best friend, and in an unusually even, neutral voice, he said simply, "Ron. Read."

They were only two words, two short, little words, Hermione thought, but she felt a strange stab of satisfaction at the comment. It was almost as if Harry had chosen sides, between her, the loony who wanted to save a potential Dark Lord, and Ron, the pedestal of logic who had readily voiced all the reasons why she shouldn't. And somehow, against all odds, against all _reason,_ he had decided to side with her. Which meant that he had also decided to side with Tom Riddle, too.

Ron must have figured this out, too, because although he mutinously sighed again, muttering darkly under his breath, he started to read obediently through a set jaw, gritting out the words, his pronunciation rather questionable:

"Seul un remède connu a été découvert pour la Malédiction fatale de l'Amina. Cependant, la rareté des cas de ceux ayant été touchés par la Malédiction, ajouté à l'extrême talent nécessaire pour accomplir le contre-sort, ainsi que la complexité des circonstances l'entourant, ont entraîné la connaissance du remède à devenir obsolète à travers les âges. Pour accomplir le contre-sort, il faut d'abord former un cercle élémentaire magique."

He glanced up, his expression akin to a school-hating child whose teacher had made him read aloud too much in class, one throbbing vein visibly protruding from the temple of his reddened face. "Should I keep going?" he asked flatly, not sounding very eager.

"Yes!" she snapped briskly, her mind systematically traveling back the conclusion of her _first _seventh year's NEWTS charms class. _Let's see… Magic boundaries, magic lines… but magic circles… **'In order to make a magic circle, one must first decide upon a containment medium…'**_

"Si l'auteur du sort n'est pas un membre de l'une des anciennes lignées magiques—"

_A medium, a medium, hmm, where to find a medium?… Ah-**hah!**_

Hermione snatched Ron's bottle of butterbeer from his hand and unceremoniously spilled its entire contents in a wide, sloppy circle around Tom and herself. A second later, she pushed the empty bottle back into the lanky redhead's still open-in-paralyzed-shock hand. He spluttered angrily, his eyes bugging out, but she cut off any complaint— "Keep _reading,_ Ronald!"

In the soft green light of the Chamber, Ron's incensed face had turned a strange shade of purple, but he continued in a low, angry voice, "Si le sort est accompli incorrectement, ou si les intentions derrière le lancer du contre-sort sont autres que celles animées par un amour pur et véritable, le contre-sort agira comme une malédiction mortelle, et le maudit périra instantanément."

He stopped with a note of finality and treacherously glanced between Harry and her again. "What does that mean?"

The Head Girl positioned herself on the ground at the dying Head Boy's right and, steeling her resolve, carefully hefted his slight shoulders up a bit, cradling his limp head in her lap.

Pausing, but only for a moment, she tenderly brushed back some of the damp locks of hair that had spilled across his ashen forehead, her fingers gently tracing their way in sort of morbid horror over the inhumanly cold skin of his lifeless face. A face that had been so alive last night…

"Hermione?" Harry's voice suddenly probed from behind her, uncharacteristically soft and almost… sympathetic.

His voice shook her out of the trancelike state, and momentarily, she closed her eyes. Eventually, she opened them and answered matter-of-factly. "It means that if I don't do the spells exactly right and/or I don't truly love him, the counter curse will fail and kill him instantly."

_You're so **close,** Hermione! You can't stop now!_ _Emotions later; focus **now!**_

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she tore her eyes away and snapped on to the makeshift, watery circle around her, again summoning back Professor Flitwick's voice, **_'…one must secondly, and most importantly, illuminate the magical boundaries with fire…'_**

"Well, that screws that, then, doesn't it!" Ron threw up his hands in exasperation as Hermione held out her wand and, with short, upward wrist flicks, carefully conjured small, stubby white candles along the ring of butterbeer. "And hmm, I don't know why," his voice began to lower until it was nothing more than a hiss, "but am I the only one here who thinks this entire situation creepily has the feel like we're bloody _resurrecting_ a Dark Lord? Or have the both of you just lost your _bleedin' minds!"_

Hermione was so intent on finishing the circle, his livid words didn't even register—or her ears had simply decided to temporarily block out his voice. "Alright," she said in a businesslike manner, "unless I successfully complete the counter curse, 7:44 is the time he's… he's— he's going to…"

She was having more trouble with the next three words than she'd _ever_ had saying Voldemort's name… _Come **on,** Hermione, don't be a **wimp**_ "—going to die." She rushed out the words and then gulped in a deep breath.

_There, that wasn't so bad. Lighting didn't flash down and strike you._

"Don't ask me how I know," she added with a sharp glance at Ron as he opened his mouth.

Instantly, his mouth snapped shut again, and she fumbled with her wand, checking and rechecking the magic circle. Butterbeer, er, containment medium…. candles… fire… Right. Everything seemed right. There was only one thing left to do, and Tom was still breathing, so that meant…

"What time is it, one of you?" she asked quickly.

Harry raised his wand and muttered; glowing red numbers appeared out of the end of it, floating upward toward the yawning, indefinite ceiling of the chamber. "Seven o'clock, forty-one minutes and thirty-two seconds."

Thank _God,_ she was going to make it. It would be cutting it far, _far_ closer than she would have liked, but she was still going to make it, Tom was going to make it. _She was going to make it! _She felt like screaming and dancing in celebration but she couldn't, not yet, so without even pausing to think on it, Hermione briskly held out her hand for the book. "Alright, I can take it from here."

Ron's gaze doubtfully darted between her and Tom, and it eventually landed on her again, wide-eyed. "Mione, you don't lo—" His voice caught and emerged strangled, as if he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. He tried again, but still couldn't find it in him to say to words, so he simply demanded incredulously, "You don't _really, _do you?"

With his display outside the Defense door, Hermione hadn't exactly expected him to be especially accepting of it. She prayed, _prayed_ furiously that she was wrong, because the clock was ticking down too quickly, ticking, ticking, and she was afraid of what she would do if he refused to hand over the book in about three seconds… oh, and she _would_ do something…

But she was right. When she didn't answer 'no' immediately, the lanky redhead momentarily stared at her in shock, and horrified realization dawned on his easily readable face, which had begun to morph through several shades of increasingly deepening red; _"Holy bloody **hell,**_ Hermio—"

"_GIVE_ IT TO ME, _RONALD!"_ she screeched so vehemently that Ron actually froze as booming, supernatural echoes ricocheted off the Chamber walls deafeningly, serving only to better capture her anger and utter desperation—

'_GIVE IT TO ME RONALD IT TO ME Ronald it to me Ronald to me Ronald to me Ronald Ronald Ronald…'_

As the ghostly words faded away, Ron meekly handed it over, although he shot a bewildered look at his best friend as Hermione swiftly snatched the partially burned book from his hand and deftly ran her finger down the lines of French, reviewing and mumbling under her breath. "D'you realize she's called me Ronald at least seven times in the past ten minutes?" he asked, sounding bewildered.

After a moment, Hermione's mind indistinctly registered Harry reply carefully, "I hate to say this, mate, but you really deserved it." Another second later, and she sensed rather than saw him come up beside her, outside the ring of candles, but close enough so that when he held his still-lit wand out directly over the book, it illuminated the print like a trustworthy lamp.

Completely engrossed in what she was doing, she could only briefly wonder why he was being so incredibly accepting of this —no, not only accepting, but _helpful—_ and waved her hand in a distracted thanks, trying to calm herself as she yanked out her wand with a shaking hand and scanned the well-drawn sketches illustrating the spell.

_See, this isn't so complicated after all; you have at least a minute left, you can do this, just **calm down—**_

Suddenly, her smoothly moving eyes staggered to a pregnant stop, and her stomach lurched so violently she was vaguely surprised it didn't explode. For a moment, she stared in absolute horror at the bottom of the page until she eventually found it in herself to choke out tightly, "How much time?"

Like the words were coming through a vacuum, Hermione distantly heard Harry repeat his earlier incantation, and after a slight pause, he reported, his voice abnormally low and hollow in her closing ears, "Thirty-five seconds."

_Oh God._

She was vaguely surprised at the urgency in his voice, a voice that logically should have wished Tom Riddle dead, but she didn't exactly have any time to dwell on it or even be grateful. Instead, she could only gape incoherently at the charred bottom right edge of the page, her mind reeling in waves of disbelief and throbbing, pounding terror.

The corner was singed only slightly… but just enough of the paper had been burned away to cut off most of the last word of the spell.

All she had left to work with was _'A—.'_

_Absolutus_ was the most logical choice, but _adiutrix_ also made sense…

"Twenty-five seconds, Hermione."

The rise and fall of Tom's chest so shallow and irregular, Hermione could hardly detect that he was breathing at all, and, desperately, she tried not to look at his pallid face, desperately tried not to center on how eerily cold his body felt, even through his clothes; how his head lolled back in her lap like a broken toy...

_Oh God, oh God, oh God…_

"Nineteen seconds."

Hermione gripped her wand so hard her knuckles started to turn white. The little candles' lights were growing dim. Her head was pounding, her shallow breath coming in gasps borderline hyperventilation, her stomach twisted in such burning knots it was a wonder she could still function, the pressure at her chest so intense she felt like she might actually explode.

What if she picked the wrong word?

"Eleven seconds."

'_Fail to complete the countercurse exactly as instructed, and the Afflicted shall perish immediately…'_

"Five."

_Absolutus_ or _adiutrix?_

"Mione!"

_**OhGodohGodohGodohGod…**_

"_Amor verus castus absolutus!"_ she desperately yelled with every bit of energy she had left.

With a powerful rush, gale-force wind burst through the Chamber, gusting around her, whipping her hair up around her head as, like and electrical surge, the dim light of the tiny candles simultaneously flew upward, and the make-shift perimeter of the magic butterbeer circle exploded into a blinding ring of fire.

The blast was so bright Hermione let out a muffled shriek and squeezed her eyes shut, instinctively heaving Tom's upper body up into her arms with a strength she didn't know she had, leaning her face against his cold, limp one, protectively wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders as a sharp crackle and a blast of heat at her back, all around her seared away any remaining frigidness she felt from the chamber; she could distantly hear Harry and Ron's garbled voices yelling, shouting….

Somewhere in the chaos, in the roaring of the fire and the blistering temperatures and the shouts and the blinding light… Hermione felt her arms give a small but definite jerk, and her breath caught, her heart instantly leapt in an indescribable, _unbelievable_ hope…

Because she hadn't been the one who had moved.

Suddenly, in a matter of about two seconds, the hurricane of wind whirling around her died down as quickly as it had come, the flames extinguishing as if a giant hand had reached out and snuffed them, the candles, the light vanishing in the blink of an eye, and now she could definitely hear Tom coughing weakly now; sliding her gaze to the left, she could see his ghostly white face beside hers regaining some coloring, his gray eyes cracking open in dazed confusion; she could feel him shift slightly in her arms; he was awake, _alive…_

_My God, he's still alive, _she thought numbly, and, for a split second, she froze in paralyzed incredulity. She had chosen right. Had the spell backfired, he should have been dead by now, but he wasn't.

_He's alive._

She had done it, and the spell had worked. Oh _God,_ the spell had worked, but she had been _so close…_ so close to losing him forever… but she hadn't, because he was alive; _he's alive, he's alive, HE'S ALIVE!_

Her mind was screaming _'THANK YOU, thank you GOD!'_ , dancing in joy, whirling and twirling and singing and laughing, but on the outside Hermione found that she could only choke back a broken cry, and before she realized it she vaguely felt tears begin to stream down her face until she was sobbing, but she didn't care. Reluctantly releasing her death grip around him with one hand, she shakily reached up and gently brushed some of his damp, tousled hair back from his dazed face.

The motion caused Tom to give a small, rather drunken-like jerk in surprise, as if he hadn't noticed anyone's presence but his own until then, but he continued to blankly stare straight ahead like his mind was still partially at the brink of demise.

Hermione couldn't take it anymore. Her mind needed more proof, solid proof; she needed to feel him, to breathe him and taste him and hear his voice, and with a tiny squeal she knelt and flung her arms around him like she had never hugged anyone else before in her life, whispering, over and over, over and over, "Thank you God, oh God, thank you, thank you God…"

For a moment, Tom stiffened, shivering violently, his heavy sweater and pants apparently not enough to protect him from the chill of death he had nearly experienced, but then he choked out, _"Hermione - _You - don't – don't have to - bloody well _suffocate _me –"

Hermione let out a strangled sound that was a cross between a laugh and whimper and loosened her hold around him only slightly, but that seemed to be enough for him to firmly identify her.

"Oh God," he breathed faintly, disbelievingly, as if still in a haze, "Oh God – it really _is_ you–" Slowly, she felt his arms wrap around her rather numbly. "How-"he choked out in a stunned voice, faltered, and tried again, "How did you…?"

"_Ssssh,"_ she managed to murmur, fighting back the tears that helplessly ran down her cheeks, clutching his sweater in her fists, closing her eyes and burying her face into the grove at the back of his neck, his warm neck, his very much alive neck. "I'll explain later. Just be here right now. Just be here with me."

It was as if Harry and Ron had completely disappeared; as if all that existed in the world were she and Tom, and, a moment later, Hermione felt his embrace on her tighten until he had pulled her flat against him, as if he was afraid she was going to disappear at any given second.

"Hermione," Tom finally murmured again, his voice a low, throaty rumble somewhere nearby her head in that wonderfully melodic voice, that calming, soothing perfect voice that she knew she could never live without. Suddenly, he mumbled tightly, his words muffled slightly against the side of her head, "If - you're expecting me to be an… an ideal white knight in shining armor… I can never be the person you expect me to be."

"No," she whispered vehemently, releasing his sweater and wrapping her arms around him even more tightly, reaching up with one hand and weaving her fingers into the tangled hair at the back of his head. "That's just it. I never expected any of this from you. None of it."

Breaking off, but without letting up her hold on him at all, she twisted her head slightly and pressed a loving kiss into the soft skin of his neck. His breaths quickened against her head, his heart thudding harder against her chest, and a moment later, she broke off and whispered earnestly, "Tom, I'm so proud of you, I'm so _proud…"_

The dark-haired Slytherin made a soft, unintelligible noise under his breath, pulling away just slightly, and, for the first time that morning, Hermione found herself gazing into stormy gray eyes that were swirling with so much unspoken everything, so much emotion and care and actual sparkle…

She watched as Tom's hand reach up toward her face, and then his other, and before she knew it her head was being cradled between two large, warm, slightly shaking hands.

"Your mother –" For a brief moment, his voice cracked, but he swallowed hard and continued in a whisper, "She - told me, on Christmas, that – that despite who I was, because of who I was – that you loved me."He took a deep breath and then let it out, its shuddery discharge the only sign of anything other than calmness in his demeanour as he slowly asked in a voice so low it was hardly audible, "Is that true?"

Did he even need to ask? How could he not have known, not have realized?

She could barely breathe; his presence, a mere heartbeat away, made her feel like she was burning and suffocating at the same time. He was so close all she needed to do was push herself up just a bit to reach his lips –

She hadn't even realized how long she'd been silent until she heard Tom murmur in a low voice that was shockingly unsteady, "Hermione… Please – say something…"

Swallowing hard, Hermione finally managed to choke out in the faintest of whispers, "She was right."

Abruptly, Tom's head abruptly sagged against hers, as if he had been relieved of some great burden. His soft, warm breaths puffed raggedly into her wildly curled and tangled hair, and she desperately burrowed into the comfort of his arms, simply content to feel his heart thudding rhythmically against her chest, just him and her, alone, together…

In those few brief moments, when it seemed as if everything in this less-than-perfect world could not have been any more divine, words from a letter of farewell that she had read in the utmost despair only an hour earlier flashed though her mind.

'**_By now his rather pathetic story has probably bored you quite successfully, I expect, so I'll leave you with only one regret—his main regret, really: That he hadn't the chance to tell her something he had never told anyone else before, because he never had anyone to tell it to. _**

_**But it's something he's wanted say to her from the moment the curse moved into Irreversible. **_

_**Hermione, I love you.'**_

He loved her.

What progressed from that moment onward wouldn't be easy, that much Hermione knew. There would be so many obstacles to cross. Her friends would certainly be against it. At the same time, she knew that whatever darkness was stirring in the Death Eater meetings of present would certainly be a danger as well. But at that moment – in any moment – it didn't matter.

As long as they had, trusted, believed in each other, it didn't matter.

Breathing deeply, Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, Muggle-born witch, resolutely lifted her eyes to the dark-haired Heir of Slytherin only inches away from her, willing every emotion, every ounce of what she felt into her expression, her words unwavering. "Tom… I love you, too."

_**The End**_

_"Once you love, you cannot take it back, cannot undo it. What you felt may have changed, shifted slightly, yet still remains, and forever will, love." –Whitney Otto_

**Translation of French here:** _Only one known cure has been discovered for the fatal Amina Curse. However, the rarity of cases of those afflicted by the Curse, along with the extreme skill needed to perform the counter curse, as well as the complexity of the circumstances surrounding it, has allowed knowledge of the cure to become obsolete through the ages. To perform the counter curse, one first needs to form a basic magic circle._

_Should the caster not be a member of one of the ancient magical bloodlines, should the spell be performed incorrectly, or should the intentions behind the casting of the counter curse be any but those of pure, true love, the counter curse will act like a killing curse, and the afflicted will perish instantly._

Peace out-

Lady Moonglow


	32. An Alternate Ending

_**IMPORTANT**_** A/N: - READ ****FIRST SO THAT YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. **This is not a complete ending – well, it is, but it isn't fully written. I have gotten countless requests for me to explain how I would have resolved the story with the original ending I posted (for new readers, that twist will be included below), as well as to explain many of the twists in the story that seemed to have no resolution with the current ending. To help you, as readers, appreciate the story more, I decided that, rather than trying to write one gigantic paragraph explaining it all, to post all the notes and unfinished chapters of Have You Ever that I have in my records. **Keep in mind,** though, that these are just that, notes, and while the next chapter will begin in full story form to the point where I simply had no more time nor motivation to fill in the gaps, the rest is simply skips in important dialogue and details that I was planning to put in the final chapters. It jumps, it's scattered, it includes my scribblings to myself, and it changes tenses, but it is dialogue that, I feel, gives the explanation of how I originally planned the story to end better than I can. It does read in chronological order, though, and should be fairly easy to read. Thank you, again, for all of your beautiful reviews. I'm so happy you liked the story. I'm sorry to tell you that I have no plans to fill in the gaps in this narration or write a sequel, so this is it, folks. Please don't be angry about that; I'm not doing this to spite you. I have just moved on from this story and the fan fiction world a long time ago, but I felt like I owed this to you, and anyway, these notes otherwise would have just sat around, unread, forever. I hope that this helps anyone who was confused or wondering why there were so many things that didn't make sense. I did have it all planned out, I just never got around to filling in the holes. If any of you feel you would like to fill in what I haven't, feel free, as long as you credit.

**An Alternate Ending…**

**Mid-Chapter 31 w/ original twist**

_He's alive._

She had done it, and the spell had worked. Oh _God,_ the spell had worked, but she had been _so close…_ so close to losing him forever… but she hadn't, because he was alive; _he's alive, he's alive, HE'S ALIVE!_

Her mind was screaming _'THANK YOU, thank you GOD!'_ , dancing in joy, whirling and twirling and singing and laughing, but on the outside Hermione found that she could only choke back a broken cry, and before she realized it she vaguely felt tears begin to stream down her face until she was sobbing, but she didn't care. Reluctantly releasing her death grip around him with one hand, she shakily reached up and gently brushed some of his damp, tousled hair back from his dazed face.

The motion caused Tom to give a small, rather drunken-like jerk in surprise, as if he hadn't noticed anyone's presence but his own until then, but he continued to blankly stare straight ahead like his mind was still partially at the brink of demise.

Hermione couldn't take it anymore. Her mind needed more proof, solid proof; she needed to feel him, to breathe him and taste him and hear his voice, and with a tiny squeal she knelt and flung her arms around him like she had never hugged anyone else before in her life, whispering, over and over, over and over, "Thank you God, oh God, thank you, thank you God…"

For a moment, Tom stiffened, shivering violently, his heavy sweater and pants apparently not enough to protect him from the chill of death he had nearly experienced, but then he choked out, _"Hermione - _You - don't – don't have to - bloody well _suffocate _me –"

Hermione let out a strangled sound that was a cross between a laugh and whimper and loosened her hold around him only slightly, but that seemed to be enough for him to firmly identify her.

"Oh God," he breathed faintly, disbelievingly, as if still in a haze, "Oh God – it really _is_ you–" Slowly, she felt his arms wrap around her rather numbly. "How-"he choked out in a stunned voice, faltered, and tried again, "How did you…?"

"_Ssssh,"_ she managed to murmur, fighting back the tears that helplessly ran down her cheeks, clutching his sweater in her fists, closing her eyes and burying her face into the grove at the back of his neck, his warm neck, his very much alive neck. "I'll explain later. Just be here right now. Just be here with me."

It was as if Harry and Ron had completely disappeared; as if all that existed in the world were she and Tom, and, a moment later, Hermione felt his embrace on her tighten until he had pulled her flat against him, as if he was afraid she was going to disappear at any given second.

"Hermione," Tom finally murmured again, his voice a low, throaty rumble somewhere nearby her head in that wonderfully melodic voice, that calming, soothing perfect voice that she knew she could never live without. Suddenly, he mumbled tightly, his words muffled slightly against the side of her head, "If - you're expecting me to be an… an ideal white knight in shining armor… I can never be the person you expect me to be."

"No," she whispered vehemently, releasing his sweater and wrapping her arms around him even more tightly, reaching up with one hand and weaving her fingers into the tangled hair at the back of his head. "That's just it. I never expected any of this from you. None of it."

Breaking off, but without letting up her hold on him at all, she twisted her head slightly and pressed a loving kiss into the soft skin of his neck. His breaths quickened against her head, his heart thudding harder against her chest, and a moment later, she broke off and whispered earnestly, "Tom, I'm so proud of you, I'm so_proud…"_

The dark-haired Slytherin made a soft, unintelligible noise under his breath, pulling away just slightly, and, for the first time that morning, Hermione found herself gazing into stormy gray eyes that were swirling with so much unspoken everything, so much emotion and care and actual sparkle -

"Oh, how adorably… _romantic."_

At the familiar yet completely unexpected voice, Hermione stiffened and felt Tom do the same. Quickly, as if she had been stung, she pulled away from him, memories of Harry and Ron coming down into the Chamber with her, helping her save him (albeit reluctantly, on Ron's part) filling her mind, but this voice…

This voice hadn't.

Tom's narrowed eyes were questioning, probing hers' as his gaze traveled back and forth between her and something over her shoulder. Hermione gave him an uneasy, 'I-have-no-idea' shrug and uncertainly twisted herself around to face the rear of the Chamber.

She had recognized the voice, so, in a way, she wasn't surprised to see him casually leaning against one of the towering columns a bit behind an equally confused-looking Ron and Harry… and yet, she was_stunned._

"Draco," she eventually said numbly, phrasing the name somewhere between a disbelieving question and an accusing statement.

His platinum hair contrasting even more starkly against long, sweeping midnight black robes, Draco smirked in greeting. "Ah, Granger, Riddle, lovely to see you two together again so soon." He bowed slightly, a dangerous smirk still on his face, his tone so chillingly foreign and sarcastic that Hermione felt dread flood every pore in her body as he continued smoothly, "Please. Allow me to introduce my Death Eaters."

And suddenly, like swirls emerging from the shadowy depths of hell itself, hooded dark robes swept like ghostly phantoms from behind every one of the huge, snakelike columns lining the Chamber of Secrets until Hermione could see nothing but a miniature sea of inky black.

**Chapter 32: In Which There Is A Great Deal of Name-Calling and Anger**

Saturday, January 8, 1945

8:47 AM

Hermione couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't _breathe…_ she could just stare at the nightmare that had, in seconds, appeared like an apparition of hell itself before her. At least twenty-five cloaked figures were moving to pack around them in a suffocating circle. A part of her still couldn't believe they were who Draco had said they were. Was this all some sort of sick practical joke?

Her dumbfounded state of shocked silence was only broken when Harry incredulously echoed, _"Your_ Death Eaters?"

"Of course, Potter. You didn't think I'd just sit on the sidelines and play exploding snap when we came back in time, did you?" Draco asked in a voice so unlike the one Hermione was used to. In the few seconds of shocked silence that followed that explosive statement, Draco suddenly yelled "Expelliarmus!" and a spell that Hermione, amazingly, wasn't familiar with.

Hermione's stomach lurched in time to register that the wand that had previously been in her hand was now in Draco's, along with two more…

Ron's and Harry's.

_**Stupid! **__How could you let him catch you so off guard?!_

She suddenly noticed that she had, in the time between Draco's utterly unexpected arrival and the present, risen to her feet. Desperately, she attempted to take a step closer to Tom, or Harry and Ron, or maybe she was just trying to scramble away from the nightmare that appeared in front of her in general, but she found that neither of her feet responded to frantic brain signals, as if they were glued to the floor.

"What in the sodding –" From the way Ron suddenly started bellowing out curses, it was apparent that he and Harry were probably trapped in the same way. "Malfoy! You – You _son _of a –"

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry asked in a low voice from somewhere behind her, sounded as stunned and bewildered as she felt. It was a morbid comfort, knowing that she wasn't alone in her disbelief.

Whether or not the blond who had suddenly become the equivalent of the devil in her book answered, Hermione didn't hear. Almost innately, she swivelled her head around to find the comfort of Tom's expression,_anything – _But he wasn't looking at her. He was staring very intently between Draco and Calugala Malfoy. His suddenly unreadable eyes eventually met her urgent ones for the briefest of seconds, but looked away just as quickly.

And then she realized.

_Draco hadn't taken Tom's wand._

Swiftly, she whipped her head back around and sucked in a breath, trying to calm breaths that had become near-hyperventilative in a matter of seconds. She had no idea what it meant, why Tom was allowed to keep his wand when the rest of them weren't, but she knew that it most likely was not a good thing. In fact, the connotations behind the lack of action were very, very bad.

Oh God. This was not happening. Whatever was going on was not real.

Hermione's numb mind thawed enough to begin to grasp incoherent thoughts, and she faintly wondered how on earth had the – the _Death Eaters _had gotten inside the Chamber of Secrets. As far as she knew, no one else in the school save Tom and Harry spoke Parseltongue, unless…

She turned to Ron in dread, interrupting the continuing wave of profanities spilling from his mouth that Draco was silently taking with a small, smug smirk. "Did you shut the Defence Against the Dark Arts door?" she demanded, holding her breath. She knew it wouldn't help their situation much, but it was at least _one_of a million frantic questions bombarding her mentality that could actually be answered relatively quickly. "When you came down, did you shut the door?"

Ron stopped yelling long enough to furrow his brow, and Hermione knew from the guilty expression that suddenly crossed his face that he hadn't. Her breath released in a whoosh, and she felt her shoulders slump slightly as Draco tutted. "You never quite were the quickest broom in the cupboard, were you, Weasley?" he sneered in a wholly uncharacteristic tone.

Ron let out a growl in response. "I _never_ trusted him!" he snarled, jabbing a furiously finger at Draco as if he dearly wished it was his wand instead. He was obviously having the easiest time between the three modern teens of accepting the fact that Draco Malfoy du Lac had suddenly, inconceivably turned traitor. "When they said he switched sides, I never believed it, not for a second!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, Weasley, because you _always_ let blokes you know as traitors borrow your Chudley Cannon trading cards," he said sarcastically.

_Draco,_Hermione again thought numbly as Ron snarled like a near-rabid dog and gave Draco another expression of utter fury. He had so convinced her – could anyone act that well? – that he was her _friend. _She had been willing to overlook his past transgressions; she had _liked_ him, she really and truly had! And he – he had betrayed her?

"Why are you calling them by different names?" Tom suddenly asked in a deadly low voice, his eyes locked in Draco. Another shockwave revelation struck Hermione, one that she had wished was true but had never _really_ thought it was, and she felt her mouth fell open. Oh God… had it… had the leader of the Death Eaters really not been him, but Draco?

All along?

Everything was happening too fast! Even she couldn't keep up with the rate of absorption! Her gaze briefly darted over her shoulder to meet Harry's piercing green one; her eyes sending a silent 'I _told_ you it wasn't him!' Harry bit his lip and nodded reluctantly in agreement.

It was a very miniscule sort of triumph, especially considering what was about to come all too soon.

Draco pushed himself up from his perch, leaning against a Chamber column, and casually strolled between the eerily silent line of Death Eaters and the four teens, idly twirling his wand around his fingers. "You mean, our lovely Ms. Granger hasn't told you yet?" he asked with a delighted smirk, which soon changed to a sigh of mock-sadness. "Such a shame. And here you loved her and thought she was _so_ wonderful."

Dread and every other feeling of horror suddenly slammed into her like a stack of History of Magic textbooks, and a good lungful of air was again hard to come by.

So this was what Draco was doing. He was going to tell him. Like _this._

"Malfoy, what the _hell_ are you doing?" Harry hissed, obviously thinking along the same horrible lines that she was.

_Isn't it obvious? _Hermione thought dully as Draco ignored him, fear and shock quickly channelling all her energy into pure anger. _He wants the power for himself! He wants to use Tom's temper against us to gain him on his side! He's betraying us all!_

She couldn't imagined how confused the Heir of Slytherin must have been, though from the way his eyes were calculatingly darting between Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco, one would have never known it. "Told me what?" he asked in a low, even voice.

Draco's eyes lingered on Hermione for only a split second before another expression of detached nonchalance appeared, and he tilted his head toward Tom with a pleasant smile that was almost innocent. "Told you that she really came here to kill you." A wave of nausea rushed over Hermione as the blond calmly continued in the same breath, "Why else do you think we all abruptly 'transferred' schools during our final year of education? Not to come visit 'dear Uncle Albus,' that's for sure." His smile abruptly morphed to a cold smirk as he leaned forward, his voice lowered. "Why else would she work so hard to make you fall in love with her?"

_Holy mother of Merlin. _

Despite the splitting throbbing of blood through her brain, Hermione felt weak and exhausted all at once, perhaps from the combination of not having consumed a thing since dinner the night before, the nearly unbearable stress of facing Tom's death, the power she'd need to conjure to complete the time travel spell, and the fact that Draco Malfoy had, in four sentences, just destroyed everything she'd worked so hard to build…

_**NO!**__ I cannot let him get away with this!_

"That's not true!" Hermione burst out, desperately trying to salvage what little remaining hope this conversation had left before it turned into a full-scale disaster.

Draco looked amused. "It isn't? I seem to remember us having quite a long discussion once the Anima symptoms set in, about how you should go about 'making him fall in love with you'… ring any bells?"

She gasped, but before she could respond, Tom sharply turned to her, taking her face none too gently in his hands and lifting it up so she had nowhere else to look but his eyes. Had he always been standing that close to her? "Is that true?" he asked slowly. She didn't answer, only attempted to shoot Draco a horrified, murderous glare before turning to Tom with the same horrified expression-

Without her having to say a word, Tom abruptly took several steps backward and away from Hermione as if she were diseased, but when he saw he had inadvertently stepped closer to Calugala Malfoy, he jaggedly stepped away from him too, standing alone near the inner circle of otherwise silent Death Eaters. "Why?" he finally asked flatly, his forced calm tone a sure sign that things were not going in Hermione's direction.

"Allow me to explain," Draco cut in smoothly before Hermione could open her mouth.

"No! You'll slant it against us–"

"Bloody git uffa-"

Both Hermione and Ron's furious exclamations were pregnantly cut off as Draco waved a silencing spell on them. "There, much better. Now, as I was about to say, we, as it is, are from the future… nearly fifty years, to be exact. In our time, there was a Dark Lord who was attempting European denomination. "That Dark Lord would be you." He paused, his gaze lowering on Tom, and smirked. "With me so far?"

For the briefest of seconds, Tom looked stunned, but then his eyes again deadened and his face turned blank. "Yes, I believe so," he said coolly.

"Good. Let's keep going. The 'good fellows,' which basically comprised of everyone's favourite Dumbledore, his Order of the Birds – don't ask," he added when Tom's eyes narrowed questioningly, "and these three – all Gryffindors at the time, mind you, even your precious girlfriend, if you'd still care to call her that - were losing. Quite horribly, may I add. So to solve the problem, Dumbledore found a brilliant little time enchantment to send us back to kill the Dark Lord before he was powerful enough to kill them."

Hermione struggled fiercely against the Silencing Charm in the moment of quiet that ensued, but found she could only stand breathlessly in a frustrated, angry stillness. The pain in her chest from lack of air and something even more horrible was as intense as if someone had taken a hatchet to it and cleaved it open. The only other time she had felt like this was the night she had lost her parents.

She could actually feel her heart breaking.

"And where do you come in?" Tom asked finally. His blank expression hadn't changed over the course of Draco's speaking… the only alteration was in his eyes, and it was terrifying.

Grey had turned to black.

Watching him, Hermione suddenly realized why she had never seen the "Dark side of Tom Riddle," as Ginny had once put it - She had never given him _reason_ to show it to her. And God help her now that he had one.

"I'm a Malfoy. His grandson, to be exact," Draco said with a sweeping gesture at a proudly smirking Calugala. He looked back at Tom and nodded suggestively. "Once bad, always bad, if you catch my drift. I didn't come here to kill you; I came here to save you."

"You bastard," Harry's quiet voice suddenly came from her side, and Hermione's eyes widened in surprise before she remembered that Draco hadn't Silenced him. "You traitorous bastard."

"And you! You think I didn't know about you, Potter?" Draco asked delightedly, a small, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "I had you invited into the fold! I've been feeding you information for months." The-Boy-Who-Lived's eyes shot bloody murder into the blond, a vein visibly throbbing in his temple, but before he could explode, Draco continued smugly, "Of course, it worked out quite well that you thought I was someone else."

Hermione hadn't even realized that Draco had lifted the silencing charm on her until her mouth involuntarily made a noise resembling something of desperate snarl, and she instantly took full advantage of it. "Tom," she said desperately, her eyes pleading with him to understand, "It's not what you think!"

He stared at her, unreadable, his gaze blacker than she had ever seen it… than she had ever _thought_ she would ever see it. "You have no idea what I'm thinking right now, Granger," he eventually said in such a dead voice, waves of terror pulsed through Hermione's heart. He paused, then added caustically, "That _was_ what he said your name was, wasn't it?"

"Does it matter what my last name is?" Hermione whispered, her eyes ignoring Draco, Ron, Harry, a dozen and more faceless shapes lumped together around them… it was Tom, only Tom that mattered now. "I'm still me, aren't I? My physical composition hasn't magically changed in two seconds!"

"That's not the point!" he suddenly burst out furiously, his indifferent shell cracking, "You been lying to me since the day I met you!"

Hermione's lips parted in shock at the accusation that was, admittedly, partially true, but the anger that had sparked in her at Draco's incomprehensible betrayal suddenly chose that moment to burst forth and unleash itself, not on Draco… but at Tom.

Regardless, it was still for good reason. How – How dare he? After all she had done for him, how _dare_ he immediately think the worst of her and turn to the other side so quickly! "You're not being fair!" she exclaimed.

"_I'm_ not being fair?" he hissed. "Bloody - I nearly _died_ because of you!"

"I just saved your life!" she gasped out, her anger increasing at an alarmingly steady rate.

"The intention was still there," he said flatly. "It's all been a lie, hasn't it? Next you're going to be telling me that the littlest West is secretly in love with me, your ruddy "Seer visions" were actually fake, the French chateau you and your family supposedly visited at Christmas doesn't really exist, and yours and Evans' parents are happily sharing a London flat. You were a very good actress," he finished softly, looking away. "I almost believed you."

Through his speech, Hermione's blood had begun to boil, and she found that her heartbrokenness had utterly, inexplicably turned to an uncontrollable rage, which she was determined to take out on someone; specifically, Tom. "Are you quite finished?" she asked coldly.

He blinked rapidly and quickly looked back up at her, his expression blank. "Why not?" he finally threw out callously, coldness swiftly slipping back to his voice. "It isn't as if– "

"Tom? Stop talking," she ground out before he could continue speaking, "because I'm _just getting started."_

Her words seemed to have startled him into a temporary silence, and Hermione took full advantage of it, the careful control she had on her tone slipping away the longer she spoke, "Yes, Ginny's hated you for six years, ever since you made her first year a living hell! You possessed her - you _forced_ her to re-open the Chamber of Secrets! And the visions? They weren't all _fake- _How do you think I found out about your curse if I didn't? And the chateau? You're right, it doesn't exist. Anymore. Your Dark forces destroyed it and every other fortified chateau in the French Alps last year, and went on to annihilate magical Paris and everyone in it. And no, Harry's parents are still dead. Grindewald didn't murder them, Tom. _You_ did!"

It was at this point that she finally remembered to breathe, and she gasped in a gulp of air, suddenly recalling that there were unspeakable numbers of the foulest people she could imagine in the room was well. Still, that didn't stop her from collecting herself to finish – she _had _to finish. "And then," she whispered faintly, swallowing hard as her voice cracked, "And then, when I was fifteen years old, you came to my house and you murdered mine."

An abrupt silence filled the chamber, but for a moment, the briefest of moments… Hermione thought she saw the faintest flicker of shock in Tom's cold, unreadable eyes. Yes! There it was again; was there a chance – even a faint one - that she could catch him off guard, that she could still bring him back?

But as she quickly gathered a breath to say something else, though she didn't know quite what, Calugala lazily drawled, "You know, as enjoyable as this lover's spat is, I'm afraid we're going to have to interrupt."

"I'm not done yet!" she snapped, in her fury momentarily forgetting who had a wand and who didn't.

His right eye twitched, just slightly, and, as if reading her thoughts, he sharply raised his own wand. "Well, guess what, Mudblood?I don't bloody give a sh—"

"No," Draco suddenly said unexpectedly, holding up a hand, smirk on face. "No, this is entertaining." He nodded at Hermione. "Go on."

"Why thank you for such a grant of generosity, Lord_ Malfoy," _she spat and glared at him before she turned her attention to Tom and said evenly, "If you think I did this awful thing to you, then it's only fair you think about all the awful things you did to me, and my friends, and my_Muggle_ parents — 'good people,' you once called them… And remember that, despite all of that, I just saved your life! What does that tell you?"

"Most likely that you're not quite as bright as the almighty Dumbledore makes you out to be," Draco said with a little laugh to himself.

Hermione rounded on him, her fury again flaring. "It was you, wasn't it!" she hissed. "You took Lavender's book out of the Head Room! _You_ tried to burn it!"

To her surprise, Draco didn't try to deny it. "Until _you_ found it, unfortunately." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I was under the Invisibility Cloak when I saw that bint with it. Followed her into the Head Commons, took it after the lot of you ran out for something or another, not that you even cared much about it at the time…" He tilted his head slightly as he frowned down at aforementioned book, laying sprawled near Hermione's feet. "Looks like it didn't meet the fiery end I wanted into to, though."

He promptly turned his back on her and moved to Tom. "I believe my grandfather offered you a place at my side last night. You may have refused then, but the offer still stands, especially now that you've seen what this _Mudblood_ and her friends have worked against you."

_Oh my God… this is not happening… this is not happening… _This could turn out very badly. Very badly. She had to stop this!

"Do you think he's just going to step back and let you take over everything they've been planning for months? _Years?_" Hermione demanded, torn between a mix of panic and fury and confusion and emotions she couldn't even properly express. "You, who they've called a Half-Blood for Merlin knows how long? Tom, think about what you're doing! Think logically!"

She cringed as soon as the words left her mouth. Right, would he logically decide to side with someone he had just found out was trying to kill him?

"If I'm to be this… powerful Dark Lord…" Tom stared at Hermione with deadly, narrow eyes, then tilted his head slightly as he spoke to Draco. "Don't you think it's _your_ place to be at _my_ side?"

Oh God… Apparently he was thinking along the same lines that she was, and Hermione's heart filled with dread as Draco's lips curled into something that was not entirely a smirk. "Perhaps if you say 'please.' "

Hermione felt dizzy. _Merlin, I can't listen to this rot anymore. _"So what are you going to do with us?" she demanded, voicing the thought that was probably also on Harry and Ron's lips had the Silencing Charm not been in effect.

A delighted smile stretched across Calugala's face. "Have you already forgotten that Silviarius we made in Potions?"

Everything clicked into place with horrible accuracy, her nerves on complete edge as the anxiety about losing Tom yielded to the much more pressing situation at hand. "How convenient, you "accidentally" made plenty of it," she growled.

He smirked. "I'm smarter than I look, Nefertari."

Hermione couldn't stop herself from giving him a filthy look. "I doubt that."

"This conversation is getting old," Draco suddenly said, waving his hands to, she assumed, lift the silencing spell. "You're a hindrance to my plans. A little Stun, and the next time you wake up, none of this will have every happened." He laughed. "At least, not in your memories."

As one, Malfoy, Malfoy and about twenty other Death Eaters raised their wands and aimed, while Tom just stood there with his arms tense at his sides, stiffly hanging onto his wand, his eyes an emotionless void.

_Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God._

"Anyone have any bright ideas?" Hermione breathed desperately.

"None that don't require the use of a wand," Harry whispered back, his eyes shooting daggers into Draco.

Calugala smirked. "Say your prayers, Mudblood. Your life is over."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Tom abruptly said, suddenly swinging his wand to the left. He created a grey void, and the surrounding Chamber of Secrets disappears.

"Tom, what are you doing?" Hermione asked tightly, not daring to hope or even breathe.

He stared at her, wand still outstretched. "Helping you, unless you'd prefer I not."

"Oh, God," Hermione gasped, closing her eyes in relief.

"Well, I for one would prefer you do; I don't quite fancy getting my memory erased, thank you very much," Harry answered for her a bit sarcastically.

The lanky redhead, however, continued to stare at the Slytherin suspiciously. "Right, you expect us to believe that you're just suddenly going to help us when you've been offered a top spot in the Death Eaters' ranks? Are you mad?"

Tom pressed his lips together in a thin line, so much hate in his eyes Hermione found herself wondering the exact same thing. "I don't expect you to believe anything."

Surprisingly, Harry ignored Ron's _'Please _don't tell me you're going to believe this bloke' roll of the eyes and jabbed a finger at their grey, blank surroundings. "What the bloody hell is that?"

"A precaution Salazar Slytherin made when he created the chamber. We're in a time void. I can translocate us to any location in the chamber before starting it up again."

"Right, so we have a problem." (Harry)

(Tom) (sarcastically) "Thank you for that spot-on assessment."

Ron (to Tom about Draco). "Get me a wand, I'm going to kill the bastard."

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed.

Harry (trying to hold him back): "Slow down, mate, we don't want to rush into the middle of something we can't get out of!"

All silent, thinking.

(Tom) "As the lot of you are apparently experts on me, I'm sure you realize there is a basilisk – "

"No," Harry blurted with a that-is-final tone at the same time that Hermione quickly said, "Merlin, no basilisk. We don't want people dead. Just… knocked out. If we could get them out of commission for a bit and find Dumbledore, he'll know what to do."

Tom sneered, the openly hostile tension between them nothing short of blatant warfare in itself. "Just like he knew exactly what he was doing when he sent you here to kill me. He certainly has all the answers, doesn't he?"

Remembering Dumbledore's words, "Not all wars are won by fighting" (and, presumably, killing), Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Harry cut her off.

"Alright, let's put the cold war on hold for the moment and focus on surviving the hot one first." He gave Riddle a dark look. "You don't know what she went through to bring you back. She's been running around like a bloody maniac for you. I suggest you be _very_ grateful, and that's all I'm going to say right now. Is it possible to get our wands back?" he asked pointedly.

Right away, Tom lifted his wand and muttered an additional spell. Three wands came through void.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione get in their familiar battle huddle. Harry and Ron grudgingly remember to move aside and let Tom in, and he listens quietly as they discuss plans.

Ron: "Now, the question is, how do we divide twenty-nine death eaters from twenty-four wands and have three Gryffindors and one –er - Slytherin left over?"

"We can always go out there shooting and hope for the best," Harry muttered sarcastically.

"We're not going to go running out into the middle of a group of Death Eaters." (Hermione)

"I will!" Ron volunteered, sending another murderous look in the general direction of the main Chamber of Secrets

"Alright, have fun," Hermione said tiredly. "No matter how strong we are, we're still horribly outnumbered. We can't go out there and just duel them all and hope to win. We need a strategy. We need some sort of spell to take them all out."

Ron: "Like the (insert spell name) we used at the Battle of Hogsmeade?"

Hermione: "Exactly."

Tom: "(insert spell name), isn't that supposed to imitate a massive Stupefy?" (Seems familiar with it)

Harry: "Yeah. The more people to cast it, the stronger it is. With this many of us… it should last hours, at least."

(Hermione explains) "Right, does everyone know what they're doing?"

Tom (about to leave) "Very well, then, it seems like you're all quite capable on your own."

"Where are you going?" Harry asked.

"_Somebody_ has to distract them while you go set up the spell." Tom

"Don't be ridiculous, let me do it." Hermione

"No, I'll go." Harry

"No, I want to kill the bastard!"

"We're not killing anyone, Ron!"

"Yeah? Why don't you try telling them that!"

"Christ, you're all like children," Tom muttered under his breath. "All right, pick a number from one through six. Whoever gets it goes out there."

"Two," Ron said eagerly.

Hermione sighed. "Five."

"You're both wrong." (Tom starts time back up, and Hermione finds that he's moved them to the back outskirts of Chamber, the farthest they could possibly be from the hub of Death Eaters. She could hear Draco's unmistakable drawl swear, "What in the _bloody _hell-" and Calugala shout, "For Merlin's sake, FIND THEM!", the yell echoing off the Chamber walls.)

Tom's standing a few columns down. "Nefertari—Granger—hell, _whoever_ you are, get over here!"

That was a low blow, and Hermione's heart twisted painfully as she ran next to him. "Don't do this, don't act like you don't know me," she hissed.

He let out a dead-sounding laugh. "I _don't_ know you! You're someone from - from the future! You were in _Gryffindor!_ How could I possibly know who you are?"

"How could you know who I am? I think the question is, how could you _not _know who I am?" she demanded, then whispered, "You very well may be the only person who did know me for _me,_ without some – some preconceived notion of who I was." She laughed limply, her voice devoid of any conceit as she said bitterly, "The _brilliant _Muggle-born Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age, best friend of _the _Harry Potter… I was always supposed to have all the answers," she whispered faintly.

Tom stared at her for what seemed like a lot longer than what could have only been a few seconds before he said in a low voice, "Doing the spell alone won't cover it." He gestured out toward the far end of the Chamber of Secrets, which, with several black forms running about, now looked like a scurrying ant farm. "You need to cast an enclosure bubble over the lot of them so the main spell body won't miss any. Let Evans – Pot – Potter and Westley do that part. Do you even _know_ how to cast an enclosure bubble?"

"Of course I do!" Hermione bristled. "Why are you even asking me to do this if you're going to be like this?"

"Because you're the only other one here who can," he snapped.

Hermione let out a bitter laugh. "What, you have faith in my abilities even though I'm a lowly Mudblood?" she asked sarcastically.

"Do NOT call yourself that!" he shouted, but then he looked stricken that such words had left his mouth as Hermione stared at him in shock. He backed away, unconsciously repeating, "Do _not_ call yourself that…" and then sprinted off. Hermione watched him go, wide-eyed, then sighed and returned back to her position, overlooking the Chamber of Secrets.

–They all take position, Tom strolls out into middle of the Chamber, and then Hermione, Harry, and Ron hit. The power of the spell instantly knocks most of the Death Eaters flat out on the ground; only a very few Death Eaters who were on the outskirts are still left. Calugala Malfoy and Tom are duelling until Tom disarms him. Tom is going to kill him (is he doing the Crutiatus curse?), but Hermione stops him. ("Tom, no! You are not a killer!")

He lowers his wand a bit. "That's not what you said ten minutes ago."

Hermione: "In that world someone who once had your name was, yes, but in this world that person is not you!"

(Calugala Malfoy says something horribly degrading.) Tom's eyes darken, and he raises his wand sharply – Hermione thinks he's going to kill him – but he Stupefies Calugala instead, then leaves the Chamber of Secrets without even looking at Hermione.

Hermione runs after him and throws Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques at him. "I suggest you read it. You might find what it says interesting."

(Tom LEAVES (or goes out of Hermione's sight), furious, but he actually stays behind and listens to the dialogue that will appear next (she doesn't know this yet) before DRACO REAPPEARS from out of concern.

Ron takes his wand, ready to slaughter him.

"Don't be stupid, Weasley. You have to hear me out."

"Hear you out? After you tried to murder us? Do you think we're bloody daft?" Ron snapped, his eyes furious as he raised his eyebrows. "You know, 'Once bad, always bad, if you catch my drift?' "

GINNY (COMES OUT FROM UNDER INVISIBILITY CLOAK too, dressed in Death Eater robes) (EVERYBODY SHOCKED) "You really do need to hear him out."

….:)…..

Draco and Ginny explain that the entire thing was a TEST

(THIS PART ALL FLASHBACKS OF OTHER PPL'S POVs ) Basically flashbacks explain how Draco and Ginny planned the Death Eaters, first as a way to take control before Tom did because, in that case, they'd be in a much better position to work with the Ministry to take it down and find everyone who participated in it if it grew out of control. After Tom was supposed to die, they figured that he would be out of the way and they wouldn't have to worry about him wanting to join and/or take power. But then when they saw Hermione falling in love with Tom, too, and they weren't sure if she'd find some way to save his life, they began to put him to the test to see if his intentions would last (Draco making him jealous, then offering him power, etc) and see if he would either a. turn to the dark and become more evil now that he's immune to dying from love or b. protect Hermione. It was a test that he passed that morning.)

Flashback scenes:

_1. Draco and Ginny discussing the possibility of forming the Death Eaters as a ruse very early-on (before October)._

…_:)….._

_2. After C. Malfoy asked Harry to join the Death Eater ranks and he accepted, and Ginny and Draco have to deal with the ramifications. _

"_Shit," said Ginny, shoving a hand through her hair, "I don't want to string him along!" _

_Draco- "I know. I didn't want anyone else of us involved, but I guess it could work to our advantage if we're careful. Feed false information. I can pretend to be Riddle." _

_Ginny- "No, I don't like this." _

_D- "What else can we do? Potter'd murder us or want us to call it all off instantly if he found out it was us who started it all, and we're too far in to do that."_

…_:)…._

_3. Lavender, with the French book, asks Draco where the Head Girl room is, and after he tells her, he follows her under the Invisibility Cloak and steals it back when Herm, Lav, and Phyllis run out of Head Boy/Girl dorm_

…_:)….._

_4. After Hermione beats up Calugala Malfoy in the Potions classroom, Draco, in a way, protects her._

_Calugala stormed into the last Death Eater meeting before the Christmas break, looking as if he had gotten into a fight with a troll and lost horribly. Draco raised an eyebrow. "What happened to you?"_

"_Your little beauty queen, that's what. Little bint, thinks she's so bloody smart, but guess what? I am going to hurt her!"_

"_No!" Draco said forcibly. When Calugala gave him a strange look, he added in a darker, calmer voice, "No… I have something better than that. Much better." His grandfather waited expectantly during what Draco hoped was a dramatic pause, but in reality it was him fumbling for some non-violent idea. "Call her a … a Mudblood."_

"_She's a Pureblood. Calling her a Mudblood won't hurt her. Simply bruise her pride," Calugala scoffed._

_Draco shook his head. "Oh, it will. More than you know."_

_Calugala raised his eyebrow, obviously intrigued. _

…_:)…_

_5. Draco and Ginny discovering that Hermione was going to save Tom that morning (when she comes back in time for the book). They still don't trust that he's changed, and their subsequent scrambling tactics with the Death Eaters to make sure that, if Tom wasn't going to die, that he would not be drawn into the cult. If he choose the Death Eaters over Hermione, then Draco and Ginny would let Dumbledore take control of the situation. If not... they'd figure that out when they got there. _

…:)…

BACK TO PRESENT

Hermione (yelling)- "You _ruined_ my life for a bloody _test?_"

Draco: "Nef, it had to be done!"

"Don't call me _'Nef,' " _she snapped, then shook her head in disbelief. "Why didn't you just ask me? I could've _told_ you he wouldn't have done that!"

Draco: "One - Because you knew him well when he was sick, and when he was sick and dying he's not going to be acting like he would if he were up to his full potential, now would he have? But right now, he was cured and he was as powerful as he'd ever been. Now was the only time we could really find out if he changed!"

Hermione reluctantly admits to herself that she had thought about this. "And two," Ginny adds, "Your feelings for him may have clouded your vision _just_ a bit!"

…:)….

Hermione (still pretty much in a shouting match w/ Draco): "You didn't_trust_ me, you just… I don't have to talk to you anymore." She walks a distance away from the group and sits.

Harry comes up behind her.

"Why did you help me so much?" she whispered, still staring straight ahead.

He sat down next to her. "Because I… saw you two. Together."

She looks over at him in surprise. "When?"

"The night you woke up, after the Holiday Soiree. I came back to see how you were doing, under the Cloak, obviously, but… you had already gotten out of bed. You were going over to Riddle, and I – I stayed and watched," he confessed. "And... he was different, he was…_human._ You told him things that you'd never told _any_ of us before, and he told you things that I doubt he's otherwise told another living soul, and I… I could see that it –wasn't an act. That you cared about each other. A lot."

Hermione (blinking back tears). "Yes, we did." She finally starts to cry, overwhelmed about finally admitting it, out loud, to someone else, and Harry wraps his arm around her. "We did…"

…:)…

(JUMP TO WHERE THEY ARE ALREADY IN DUMBEDORE'S OFFICE AND HAVE JUST FINISHED TELLING HIM WHAT HAS HAPPENED. HE TELLS THEM WHAT THEY CAN DO TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM AND THEN ABOUT GOING BACK TO THE FUTURE)

When they explain the Chamber of Secrets mess to the past Dumbledore, he cleans up most of it using the Silviarius potion on all the Death Eaters, having them forget that the time travellers are time travellers, as well as what future events were revealed to them. Also tells them they have not been and will not be interested in joining any organization like the Death Eaters in the future, in case another person decides they would like to be a Dark Lord…

-"But how do you know if what you have come back in time to change is truly changed?" Hermione asked, unable to erase the dark, blank look in Tom's eyes from her mind.

"When your task – the same task that you were instructed to have in mind when you came back this time – if you can recall it - "

Hermione found that she easily could; it was something she'd repeated to herself so many times once shed gotten back, that no matter what happened, even the mere idea of Lord Voldemort would cease to exist after 1944. She couldn't help but smile sadly at the thought- when she'd come back, she'd had no idea that the answer to solving that problem would not lie in fighting… but in love. After a moment, she blinked and nodded at Dumbledore.

For a moment, she could have sworn he gazed at her sympathetically, but when he continued speaking as if nothing had ever happened, she assumed that she had imagined it. "Well, as the Impartus Infinitivum spell supposedly works, after that task has been completed, Magick knows that the future has been permanently changed. It creates a portal… a portal back to the original universe as a… reward, I supposed you could say, a single chance for those who have sacrificed everything an succeeded to return to their time. This portal is open for a very brief time, of course. I believe you only have a 24 hour period before it closes forever."

"How can we find it? The… portal," Ginny asked, her eyes shining… Hermione realized how much the redhead had missed her family.

"Normally, through an otherwise pointless object that has also been taken back in time. Tell me, did my future self give you anything… with an unexplained usefulness, when he sent you back?'

Hermione frowned in a no, until a flashback struck her:

_She held up the old, worn knapsack that Dumbledore had given her five days earlier. "Excuse me, Headmaster. What's this for?"_

_Dumbledore's eyes took on an unexpected twinkle, and he glanced from the bag to Hermione. "Well, if the bag will become what I hope it will become… You shall only find out if your purpose is fulfilled, Ms. Granger." He locked his piercing gaze on hers. "I assume you __do__have a very specific purpose in mind for this task, do you not?"_

"The knapsack!" she exclaimed. Summons it to them, where they unzip it and put a book inside…. and the book disappears— This is the portal.

Weasleys, Lav want to go back—to see their family again. Harry goes with Ginny (forgive sher for pulling one over on him.) Draco remains silent. Now that she figures Tom hates her, Hermione has nothing left here, so she decides to go back, too.

Ron: "But how can the future be changed—would Harry's family be alive?"

Hermione (sighs heavily) "I explained this to you at the _beginning,_ Ronald…" explaining about how parallel dimensions work… give specific example, like even if Tom doesn't become Lord Voldemort now, in their reality, Harry's parents would still die, the Ministry of Magic, London, and Paris would have still been destroyed, but the battle that had been raging when they left would be stopped in its tracks, Voldemort and his forces instantly vanishing into the dust.

"Going back it time with the spell we used instantly creates two separate universes, but they're also connected. Altering the past _here_will not undo what's already been done in the first universe, but it will change the future for that first universe from the point at which the time travellers left onward, which means that it should have stopped Voldemort's forces before they attack Hogwarts. In the Universe we're in right now, however, the present and future will remain how it has been changed – The war that Voldemort started would not take place here." She sighed. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Ron- "Not really, but I'm sure someone else will explain it to me."

BUT THEY NEED TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY, BEFORE PORTAL CLOSES! They all run to get their things while Harry takes Dumbledore down to the Chamber of Secrets to cast an even longer-term sleeping charm on Death Eaters in order to deal with the time travelling issue first.

Draco mutters to Hermione, who's still furious at him: "I'm not coming back, if that makes you feel any better."

Hermione, limply, without even looking at him: "Oh. How very nice for you." She doesn't ask why, but it turns out that Columbia Salvi- Draco really does like her, and anyway, everyone in the future still essentially sees him as his father's son, who he doesn't want to be.

…..:)….

HERMIONE GOES TO THE HEAD DORMS TO GET HER THINGS AND GIVE TOM BACK HIS SLYTHERIN PENDANT BEFORE THEY LEAVE— Harry goes with her ("I don't want you to be alone with him!" "Harry…" "No, Hermione, did you see him? He was furious. I'm coming with you.") ..

Tom sitting stiffly in the tan sofa in front of the fire - the sofa that Hermione loved, the one they had used to sit in together. She came up behind him, and was surprised by Tom's lack of reaction, no anger, no movement in surprise at her approach, no nothing. She braced herself for the worst.

"I'm leaving— well, we all are. We can't come back. Here's your pendant." (speaking flatly, brusquely, no emotion)

"Keep it," he said without turning toward her, his voice completely flat, devoid of life. "It was a gift, and it still is."

For a moment, Hermione feared that the knapsack magic wasn't right, that he was still going to be Voldemort, but how could something so powerful have made a mistake? "Why did you side with us?" she asked in a low voice, trying and failing to keep the ache in her chest from passing her lips.

He stared at the flames for several long moments. "Two weeks ago, I made a promise to a dead man to keep his daughter safe," he finally said. "I kept my word."

Tears sprang, unbidden, to her eyes. When he said nothing more, she looked at Harry. He frowned and shook his head, waving her toward the door with a nod. She sighed and looked back down at Tom, alternating between a nearly overwhelming wave of anger and equally debilitating hurt. "Well... I'm sure he'll be appreciative," she bit out. Her fingers twitched, longing to touch his arm, his shoulder, _anything;_ instead, she forced herself to clench them firmly in a fist and turned to leave.

"I heard what du Lac and West said, in the Chamber," he said suddenly. He slowly turned toward her, his eyes abruptly and astonishingly interlaced with so much emotion. "I don't understand it, you and I, how you can know the worst of me, and I, the worst of you, and yet we can still look each other in the face."

"That's because we also know the best of each other, I think," she said softly. She had to force herself to tear her gaze away. "Goodbye, Tom."

She was about to leave when he stood and grabbed her arm. "How could you even stand to look at me?" he repeated, his voice unreadable.

Hermione doesn't meet his eyes: "For a long time, I couldn't. For a long time, I hated you. Then I realized, it wasn't you who killed my parents." She put a hand over his heart. As the smallest of shivers twinged through his chest at her touch, she just as quickly realized her error and swiftly drew the same hand away before she completely lost her senses to his nearness, shaking her head. "It – It was someone else entirely," she finished unsteadily. She took several quick steps backward. "Goodbye," she whispered.

Harry- shakes Riddles hand and says something under his breath. Later, we find out what this is.

(they leave the common room)

… :)….

NOW SWITCHING BETWEEN A LOT OF SCENES

First: (back in the very beginning of the story, from Dumbledore's semi-POV) In 1998, Hermione before-time-travel talking to Dumbledore, He does the Impartus Infinitivum on her and she disappears… then poof! Outside, the sky clears, battle over and gone, and in the middle of the room reappears a streak of light. Streak grows larger, emerges 1944 Lavender and Ginny.

Lavender: "Headmaster!" she shrieks, nearly taking the old man out as she leapt on him and threw her arms around him, "You don't know how happy I am to see that grey hair of yours!"

…..:)…

NEXT:

-Tom's POV, flashback of their first argument ("Have You Ever" chapter), after Hermione passes out.

_He stared at her limp figure on the ground beside the fireplace, his rapid, angry breathing slowing gradually. "Have I ever been in love; who in the bleeding name of Merlin brings that up during a bloody row?" he spat under his breath. He made three attempts to start back to his room, but never quite made it. _

"_Oh bloody hell," he eventually muttered, comes back, picks her up, and carriers her up to her dorms. "Christ… I am not doing this…" he muttered darkly as he picked her up. Continues to mutter, "I am not doing this," as he carried her up the stairs. He unceremoniously dumped her on the large poster bed and turned toward the door… when, abruptly, he pivoted back around. _

_For a moment, he didn't move at all, but then slowly, almost cautiously, he reached out a hand and brushed some long locks of hair out of her face. When she didn't stir, the act emboldened him, and he took a small step closer to the bed, gently lifted her up again, shifted the covers of the bed, and slid her under them. Finally, he brushed his hand against her cheek once more – _

_And he winced abruptly, gasping, one hand shooting around his stomach as he tried to catch his breath. He stared at his hand in surprise, as if it had been the cause of the pain, glanced at Hermione, and then leapt away from her in horrified realization, breathing raggedly. "Christ, what am I doing?" _

(Significant b/c this was the first moment that he began to REALLY feel something for her… and it was after one of the biggest arguments in their relationship.. and cute just because it shows how resistant to each other they originally were)

Present time, him thinking of Evans' last words to him: "Y'know… I think you're a bloody moron." He flips through Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques, reads the part on the Anima curse. She had loved him enough to save his life, even though he killed her parents. He had loved her enough to die for it. And now she was leaving forever.

… decides he has to go after her. Running, trying to catch them, goes to Dumbledore's classroom, but they weren't there. Where else would they go?

…:)….

"So, back to Hermione Granger, then, eh?" Ron asked. Now, only himself, Hermione, Harry, and Dumbledore remained in the Room of Requirements.

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think I can ever fully drop the name Nefertari now, since the Amulet of Eras has sort of adopted me, I'd say."

"Hermione Granger Nefertari?"

"No. Just a middle name. Hermione Nefertari Granger." Hermione smiled and shook her head. "I'll always be daddy's little girl first, I think."

Ron just about to go through when someone pounds on the Room of Requirements door. Dumbledore opens it. "Tom. What a pleasant surprise," he said amiably, as casually as if he had been expecting the boy for tea.

"Professor," the Heir of Slytherin said distractedly, walking past him without even looking at him. He stopped a few feet away from Hermione. "There - was something your mother said to me. At – Christmas. I wanted to find out if it was true."

-(Ron) "All she's done for you, and you've come here to ask her a bloody question?"

-(Harry) "Shut up, Ron!"

-Hermione (remembering when her mother hugged Tom in the Chamber of Secrets) – "Go on."

-Tom looks between Ron and Harry. It's personal, doesn't want them to hear, so he steps closer to her. Hermione fought back a wave of pure adrenaline at his approach, her heart beating furiously as he leaned down and breathed in her ear, "Your mother… She told me that despite who I was, because of who I was – that you loved me."He took a deep breath and then let it out, its shuddery discharge the only indication of anything other than calmness in his demeanour as he slowly asked in a voice so low it was hardly audible, "Is that true?"

_Why is he asking me this? _Hermione's mind screamed in torn confusion and desperate hope. She could barely breath; his presence a mere heartbeat away made her feel like she was burning and suffocating at the same time. He was so close all she needed to do was push herself up just a bit to reach his lips –

_Oh God, don't make me choose! _

It had been so easy before… Tom had refused the Dark Arts but, at the same time, had refused her; there was nothing to hold her to this world, so she would go back to the future she adored with the friends that she loved dearly; end of story, no thinking, no emotion involved.

But now… Sweet Merlin, but now what?

She hadn't even realized how long she'd been silent until she heard Tom murmur in a low voice that was shockingly unsteady, "Hermione… Please – say something…"

One little word was the hardest of all to get out. It was as if her mouth knew that, once she spoke, everything she had so firmly worked to convince herself of in the latter half of that day would collapse into even more chaos…

She looked at Ron and Harry, then at Tom, torn between lifelong friends, a world with which she was so familiar… and him. And then… she realized that she had made her choice a long time ago. Swallowing hard, she finally managed to choke out in the faintest of whispers, "She was right."

…:)….

EPILOGUE:

FIRST: Dumbledore, in the future: Ron, then Harry emerges from the 'rucksack'.

Lavender and Ginny waiting expectantly.

Dumbledore, mysterious smile on his face: "Should we be expecting anyone else?"

Harry, both sad and happy: "No."

….:)…

1945: HOGWARTS GRADUATION (Draco and Hermione have resolved their differences)

After they receive their Wizarding diplomas, Hermione throws her arms around Tom, causing him to grunt. "We made it," she whispered happily, squeezing him once before stepping back to really look at him. Originally, she had been referring to Graduation, but as soon as the words passed her lips and something passed behind Tom's eyes, the statement took on an entirely different meaning altogether.

Slowly, his gaze never leaving hers until the very last second, the dark-haired Slytherin brushed his lips against hers. "Yeah," he murmured with the faintest of rare smiles. "Yeah, we did."

At once, a rush of realization at the once-incredible odds against them, at how many times they had been so close to losing each other in more ways than one poured over her, and hot tears began to burn at her eyes. _We made it… _She suddenly had the urge to do so many things—shriek, laugh, cry, sing, dance, run in circles…

….:)…

After graduation, in the Room of Requirements, the six are lounging on couches having an after-party type thing with games and snacks. Draco, Columbia, Jacobson, Phyllis, Tom, and Hermione swapping stories of the past year:

"D'you remember when Draco decided to take on a Bludger and horribly lost?" Columbia asked with a snort, etc. Eventually gets to the "Have you ever" game with butterbeer… or, in Draco and Jacobson's case, Firewhiskey.

Jacobson shook his spiky blond head in amazement. "Never thought I'd be sitting in a hidden room on graduation night playing "Have You Ever" with a bunch of Slytherins."

"Haven't ever done that before, eh?" Hermione asked, and everyone laughed.

"You see," Draco drawled, pouring himself and Columbia another drink of Firewhiskey. "We Slytherins really aren't all that bad. We've just managed to get ourselves a bit of a rather soddy reputation over the years. Shame, that."

"Hmm, because of course there's absolutely _no_ reason why we should have ever gotten one of those," Tom said sardonically, causing Hermione to smirk as he twirled his wand around his fingers next to her on the couch.

Phyllis laughed. "I support Riddle on this one. At least he can _admit_ to the shortcomings of his House."

"Ah, but he never actually said they were _shortcomings," _Draco pointed out with a knowing smirk, the usual scheming twinkle in his eyes amplified even more with the aid of the Firewhiskey.

Talking about weddings and how Jacobson and Phyllis are considering engagement… This one to Tom from Phyllis: "Now, to the Ice Man: I know you've got Hermione here, but does your frozen heart actually, I don't know, _feel?_ Have you ever… been in love? And I mean, _really."_

The slightest of smirks tugged at a corner of Tom's lip. Hermione's eyes were sparkling as he glanced over at her, and the smirk grew to a rare, full-fledged smile. Suddenly, she wanted to taste Tom Riddle's lips more than she had wanted anything else in her entire life. Though she normally wasn't one for public displays of affection, she couldn't help but lean over and kiss the boy for whom she had given everything, and he, everything her, for all she was worth, which he, after a short, surprised moment, wholeheartedly reciprocated. She had initially meant it to be brief, but when it turned into something much longer, Draco eventually had to chuck his graduation cap at them ("Get a room!"), and they broke away, all of them laughing.

"Whew!" Columbia exclaimed with a grin. The dark-haired girl leaned back into Draco and pretended to fan herself with her diploma, shaking her head in disbelief. "You two… A year ago, I would have never thought I'd see the day!"

"Well…?" Phyllis prompted expectantly, mischievously now as Tom brushed back a lock of Hermione's hair, his eyes never leaving hers. Hermione raised her eyebrow in mock-expectancy, as if to ask, 'Wellll, Mr. Riddle?'

"Have _I _ever been in love?" he echoed. His eyes actually turned devious, a habit that had become a more common occurrence over the past months, as if he was considering shaking his head in a 'no.' Eventually, though, he just wrapped his arms around Hermione's waist and pulled her to him, his murmured answer partially lost in the waves of her honey brown hair. "Have I _ever."_

… :)…..

**Read this chapter's Author's Note if you are at all confused by that ending.**

**And that really is The End.**

**Thank you for the beautiful ride. **

**Love,**

**Lady Moonglow**


End file.
